The iron doors of the central transit vessel hissed shut with a sharp screech, locking out the roaring ambient noise of the outside. Within a second, the suffocating reality of public transportation slammed into the aristocratic senses of Malcolm Ford like a physical fist.
The carriage was a chaotic hive of baseline human density. It was tightly packed to the brim with commuters, administrative laborers, and warehouse workers shifting between districts. The air inside the cylinder was thick, warm, and heavily pressurized, carrying the overwhelming, mingled scents of cheap synthetic colognes, stale cafeteria coffee, and damp rain jackets.
