"Morning at Atlas" – PART 1
— Skyrise Routine, Loudspeakers, Stretching Limbs, and Side-Eyes —
The sun barely pierces the upper windows of Atlas, one of the last functional vertical cities after the fall of the ground grid. Built on rust, reinforced with stubbornness, and somehow still standing, it groans like an old man each morning.
Then the loudspeakers crackle.
"Good morning, Atlas! Sunshine in your armpits, joy in your joints! Let's wake up the bones, people!"
A jingle follows—shrill, off-key, and undeniably irritating.
Neighbors moan. Curses fly.
Doors slam shut. Pillows are launched. Someone yells, "Not again, Minatoma, you freak!"
Sky Lord Minatoma, the de facto landlord of Atlas Tower, loves mornings.
He makes it personal.
"To the gamblers on Level 15, sorry your wives found your winnings—what's left of them!"
"To Auntie Reika, please stop hanging wet fish on the hallway railings. It's dripping on 26!"
"To all farmers, foragers, and pipefixers—your shifts are posted. Get moving. Today's a good day to not fall off the building."
The announcements are blasted in five dialects. Children run down the stair rails.
Women chase husbands with brooms.
Someone cries about overdue water tokens.
And everyone waits for the big news.
"GOOD NEWS EVERYONE, WATER IS NOW RUNNING. REPEAT. WATER. IS. RUNNING."
A thunderous whoop spreads like wildfire.
Buckets, flasks, basins, old batteries—everyone runs.
The communal tanks only run for 40 minutes a day, and no one wants to miss their share.
Outside Flat 27A – Grandma Yuki's unit
Shoguichi stands barefoot on the creaky iron platform, arms out wide like a bird sensing the air.
He rotates his wrists slowly. Crick. Crick. Pop.
Fingers interlace behind his back, elbows lift, chest expands.
He drops into a deep squat, holds it.
Stretches his calves. One leg forward, the other flexed back like a coiled spring.
Precision. Breathing. Alignment. He doesn't move without warming up. Ever.
Because in a place like Atlas, a single misstep could send you into the abyss between buildings—what the kids call "the Depth."
And the kids are watching. Again.
They peek from the balcony two floors above. A pair of twin girls whisper loudly.
A chubby boy dangles over the railing, trying to imitate Shoguichi's stretch. His shirt says 'Skate or Float' with a fish skeleton on it.
"What is he doing?" "Training his ankles."
"No, it's that ancient jump stance."
"He's definitely gonna do the flying cat vault today!"
Shoguichi grunts. Not from pain—just mild despair.
"Guys… please. Go do something normal. Read a book. Steal food. Whatever kids do."
"But you're a runner!" one shouts.
He groans. "I'm not a runner."
Just then, the apartment door creaks open and out pokes Grandma Yuki, wrapped in two scarves and a sleeveless apron. A wooden spoon in one hand, a plastic mug of soy coffee in the other.
"Still stretching like a spoiled crane, Sho?"
"Good morning to you too, Grandma."
"You're avoiding commitment. Water's flowing. Get moving."
"I need to activate my hips properly."
"Your hips were born activated. You came out of the womb kicking. Ask grandma tan"
The kids laugh. Shoguichi rolls his eyes and stands.
"Fine, fine. I'm going."
He shakes out his arms. Rolls his neck side to side.
From his back pouch, he pulls out his fingerless gloves—leather, hand-stitched. A gift from his late father. They fit snug, like ritual armor.
"Remember," Grandma Yuki calls behind him.
"Two tanks. No flirting. And if that Tower 17 girl touches your hair again, tell her I said she can braid onions instead!"
He hops once. Twice.
Then in one fluid motion, Shoguichi launches over the railing—arms out, knees tucked—his body bending in the wind like a swallow.
Shoguichi drops three floors in a silent arc—arms tucked, knees controlled, body spinning slightly to absorb the force.
BAM—grip. Swing. Kick. Land.
He grabs a rusted pipe midway, flips sideways onto a steel beam, pushes off again, and lands smoothly on the Level 24 walkway.
A few stray pigeons scatter in his wake.
From below, an old man holding a jug of fish water shouts:
"OI! Flying goat! Use the damn stairs like decent people!"
But Shoguichi's already gone—his boots tapping like rhythmic drumbeats along narrow scaffold bars.
He cuts across laundry lines, water buckets, sleeping cats, and a lady carrying a massive bowl of spinach on her head.
She gasps. "My God! Was that Shoguichi?!"
Meanwhile – Inside Apartment 30B, Tower Ring B
James bursts out of his door half-dressed.
He's got one sock, mismatched shorts, a tattered vest—and a toothbrush foaming in his mouth like he's eating a rabid cloud.
"WATER'S RUNNING?!"
He skids past his roommate, trips on a rubber slipper, and nearly faceplants.
"Move move move move—!"
He grabs a jerry can with one hand, a cap with his toes, and flies down the stairwell.
Someone's goat blocks the hallway.
"KABUKI! MOVE, YOU DEMON!"
He hurdles over it.
At the South Corridor
Korie, graceful and already half a level ahead, hears the chaos.
She's got her hair tied back, her water sack strung like a bandolier, and she's already jogging.
She never panics. She knows the route. She's mapped every shortcut.
She chews a piece of ginger root calmly and mutters,
"Boys."
She hears James screaming from above, banging into walls, choking on his toothbrush.
Back to Shoguichi
He's moving too fast to feel the chill.
Every ledge, every cable, every inch of this tower—he knows it.
A forgotten plank here.
An old scaffold with spring.
A rusted billboard with just enough curve to vault over.
He jumps a four-meter gap between two platforms—knees tucked, chest forward, twisting mid-air like a gymnast wrapped in flight.
Whoosh!
He lands. Rolls.
Springs to his feet.
Suddenly — Voices Behind Him
"IS THAT—?" "SHOGUICHI?!" "WHAT THE HELL—?!"
Korie rounds the corner just in time to see a blur sail past her.
James nearly drops his jerry can.
"NAH. NO WAY. NAH. NO FAIR!"
Shoguichi blazes by, not even looking back.
James screams around his toothbrush:
"OH IT'S ON! I'M NOT LOSING TO GAZELLE LEGS AGAIN!"
He yanks the toothbrush from his mouth and spits like a dragon.
"Korie! You in?!"
She smirks, doesn't answer—just shifts lanes and turns up the pace.
Now — The Race Is On
The catwalks groan with footfalls.
Dust rains down from the upper rafters.
Someone yells about laundry getting knocked over.
A drone zips by, almost gets kicked.
Three silhouettes race across the eastern skybridge—Shoguichi in front, Korie tight behind, James bulldozing obstacles like a lunatic.
Even the old drunk man who lives in the water tank pipes pokes out and goes,
"Huh. Must be Tuesday."
Shoguichi doesn't care about winning.
He doesn't care who's watching.
But in that moment—wind slicing past, gloves tight on steel rails, feet alive—
he feels free.
And below, Atlas rises with noise and fire and morning madness, but up here?
He's flying.
Shoguichi was just a hair ahead—arms pumping, breath steady, movements sharp but not at full throttle. He could have gone faster. He just didn't need to.
Korie was pacing right behind, nimble, rhythmic.
James was pure panic-powered brute force, carrying a sloshing jerry can and the weight of his pride.
The trio hit the long descending ramp at Level 10, shoes screeching, metal vibrating under their feet.
The turn was sharp—a narrow bend between utility pipes and hanging clotheslines.
Shoguichi lowers his shoulder—ready to cut through.
And then—
—a flash of white fur darts through a wall hole.
A cat.
Small. Cream-colored. One torn ear. Blue cloth collar.
"Miso—?"
He recognizes it mid-stride.
"Grandma Tan's cat?"
His footing falters.
Shoguichi pivots too late—tries to shift his weight—
spins—flips sideways—lands crash! into a rack of hanging tins and slams into Korie's left shoulder—
"AH—!!" "HEY!!" CLANG!!
Korie stumbles back, colliding with James who roars:
"WHAT IN THE—?!"
His jerry can flies upward. A toothbrush shoots from his pocket like a missile.
Everyone's down.
Mid-fall Chaos
Shoguichi untangles first.
The cat has stopped, sitting just past a laundry basket.
It's staring at him. Quiet. Unmoving.
Korie gets to her knees. "Sho… you okay?"
He doesn't respond.
James groans, rubbing his ribs. "What the hell was that?! You trying to kill us, ninja boy?!"
Shoguichi's already crawling forward.
The cat meows—soft, uncertain.
And Shoguichi whispers, "She never lets you out…"
He picks up the cat gently. It doesn't resist.
It knows something too.
The three of them look at each other.
Korie speaks first, voice low.
"Something's wrong."
James doesn't argue.
Grandma Tan's Apartment – Unit 10A
They push open the door. It's not locked.
Inside: a tiny room that smells like ginger tea and old books.
Plants everywhere. Papers. Spices.
A faded photograph of someone in military uniform.
A kettle sitting cold on the stove.
"Grandma Tan?"
"Hello?"
"Are you home?"
No answer.
The cat slips out of Sho's arms and pads toward the bedroom.
They follow.
The Bedroom
She's in bed.
Propped up. Hands folded over her lap.
Her glasses still resting on the tip of her nose.
Curtains drawn back so morning light pours in.
Peaceful.
Too peaceful.
Shoguichi stops in the doorway.
He knows that kind of stillness.
He saw it before—when his father didn't wake up that winter morning.
Korie walks past him quietly.
She doesn't touch her.
She doesn't need to.
James lowers his head. His mouth opens, but no words come out.
Shoguichi steps forward and kneels.
He closes her book.
Takes off her glasses.
And holds her hand for a long moment.
"She's gone," he says softly.
That night, the rooftop of Atlas Tower was quieter than it had ever been.
The sun had long dipped behind the smog-hazed horizon. The city below was a maze of flickering lights and shadows. But here—on the highest platform above the laundry lines, water tanks, and rusted railings—a solemn gathering formed.
At the center of it all lay a wooden bier, hand-built from scaffolding and discarded furniture, lined with soft fabrics and herbs.
Grandma Tan, wrapped in her favorite indigo robe, rested at the peak.
Her cat, Miso, sat silently at her feet.
In Atlas Tower, when someone died, they were returned to the wind not to the earth.
No graveyard. No burial.
Instead, the body was burned at the highest point.
Ash carried upward—a final release into the breath of the world.
Every family came with a single item: a candle.
Children, elders, traders, cleaners, tailors—all who knew her—lit their flames and placed them around the bier.
The soft glow stretched in a slow, humming circle.
It wasn't a noisy event. No sobbing.
Just the low murmur of stories being shared in small knots of people, over cups of herbal tea.
"She once gave me ginger when I was sick."
"She fixed my shoe when I couldn't afford another."
"She told me my dreams mattered."
"She used to say tea solves most things… except taxes."
Shoguichi sat apart, legs folded on a ledge overlooking the tower's drop.
The candles flickered behind him.
He kept his head low, chin tucked.
His hands were clenched on his knees.
Korie and James approached together, each holding cups of Grandma Tan's last batch of hibiscus tea. They sat beside him, no words at first.
James broke the silence.
"She's really gone."
Korie nodded.
"It doesn't feel real."
A beat passed.
James sipped his tea. "You know... I was born here. Fourteen years ago. On Level 6. My mom and dad still live there, too scared to move higher."
He chuckled faintly.
"First time I ever climbed to Level 10 was to sneak cookies from Grandma Tan."
Korie smirked.
"I moved in five years ago. From Skyspire. It was… a mess. Mom was scared all the time. No food. No friends. Then Grandma Tan saw me crying and handed me a cup of burnt rice tea."
She smiled into her cup.
"It was awful. But it helped."
Shoguichi didn't speak at first.
Then, quietly:
"My father, he used to say there was nothing Grandma Tan couldn't bake for a pie, we used to make deliveries for her every saturdays ....."
He stopped and then left.
Korie and James watched him go, then looked up at the bier where Grandma Tan lay beneath the stars.
"Who takes her room now?" James asked.
"I don't know," Korie replied.
"Maybe no one should. Not yet."
He nodded slowly.
They continued to talk. About life. About what it means to grow up in a tower full of ghosts, gossips, rusted pipes, and dreams that sometimes leak more than the ceiling.
And somewhere just above them, embers began to rise.
The flames had been lit.
Grandma Tan was going home.