The cab slid to a halt.
No words were exchanged.
The doors parted with a faint hiss, and Astron stepped out into the streets of Arcadia's southern industrial scape.
Unlike the gleaming glass corridors of the upper districts, this place breathed in gradients of gray. Steel-paneled warehouses loomed on either side of the road, their surfaces etched with old company tags, half-faded sigils, and rusted stabilization anchors that buzzed faintly with residual charge. The air carried the scent of processed mana—burnt ozone mixed with the chemical tang of coolant runoff.
He didn't pause.
His boots hit the pavement in practiced rhythm, each step muffled against the textured polymer streets. Overhead, the sky was darker here—less light bleed, more coverage. No advertisement projections. No transport rails above. Just static towers in the distance and the intermittent hum of arcane conduits.
Astron lifted his smartwatch again.
