Zeke took a single step out of the ancient mausoleum, its stone structure looming behind him like a forgotten monument of a time long past. The building stood with solemn dignity, its rounded iron doors slightly ajar, revealing the darkness within. Decorative columns, chipped and worn by centuries of weather, still supported the crumbling roof, casting long shadows beneath the faint moonlight. The mausoleum was perched on the outskirts of Lower Babel, nestled among the ruins of what was once the outskirts of Berlin.

As Zeke emerged, the night sky stretched out before him—vast, but hollow. He had dreamed of this moment, the sky in his mind always a deep, endless blue, almost cartoonish in its perfection, like the sky captured through a fisheye lens. But reality greeted him with a dark gray canopy, muted by the haze of city lights. The majestic stars he longed to see were hidden behind the artificial glow, swallowed by the pollution of progress.

"I've got a long way home," Zeke muttered, his gaze drifting toward the distant space elevator. It pierced the skyline like a needle, impossibly tall, tethering the heavens to the city below.

He moved forward, leaving the cemetery behind as he sought the nearest monorail station. Lower Babel was far too vast for his usual method of leaping across rooftops, a technique he'd grown accustomed to in the cramped and vertical landscape of the Undercity. Here, even with his speed, it would take days to traverse the sprawling metropolis on foot. The city seemed to stretch endlessly before him, a labyrinth of neon lights and towering structures.

After some time, Zeke found the monorail station, a small, rundown structure on the edge of the city. Its walls were plastered with graffiti—colorful swirls of rebellion and discontent, each layer telling a story of the forgotten people who lived in the shadows of the towering skyline. The station was easy to spot thanks to the glowing green beacons that marked all transportation hubs in the outskirts—faint pillars of light that flickered, casting a sickly glow on the cracked pavement.

He passed through the checkpoint, swiping his old student ID card. "Still valid," he whispered, a small smile playing at his lips. Had the academy truly forgotten about him, or did they assume he was dead? Either way, it worked to his advantage.

Zeke settled onto a cold metal bench, his breath misting in the chilled April air. It was unseasonably cold for the time of year, but he welcomed the bite of the wind. It reminded him of something distant, something familiar, yet just out of reach. He imagined the city in winter—streets blanketed in thick, untouched snow, so dense that even the city's relentless traffic would struggle to break through. The thought was fleeting, but it brought a strange warmth to his heart.

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When the monorail arrived, its sleek silver frame gliding silently into the station, Zeke felt a pang of nostalgia. The hiss of the doors opening, the faint hum of the electric engine—it all reminded him of simpler days. As a child, he used to ride these rails aimlessly, staring out at the world below from the elevated tracks, taking in the sights of a city that seemed both infinite and unknowable. Now, he was doing it again, but everything felt different. The city hadn't changed, but he had.

The monorail sped through the city, offering Zeke glimpses of Lower Babel's neon-lit streets. Eventually, it stopped at Theater Street, a name given in honor of the old theater that once stood proudly before the cataclysm. Now, it was nothing more than rubble, but its legacy lived on through the street named after it. The station was not far from his home—Mega-building 17 in Winston Alley—a tower that loomed over the district like a sentinel.

Zeke wandered through the streets, the asphalt slick with a thin layer of ice. Neon signs reflected in the frozen ground, their gaudy colors casting vibrant shadows on the cracked, uneven pavement. Clinics and shops, brothels and cafes—each business screamed for attention with glowing advertisements. In Lower Babel, if you weren't illuminated, you didn't exist.

The air was thick with the scent of oil and smoke, but to Zeke, it was intoxicating. He inhaled deeply, savoring the life of the city—the pulse that beat beneath the steel and stone. As he walked, his thoughts drifted back to the Undercity, to the harsh reality of what lay below this sprawling metropolis. He glanced at the massive towers that rose before him, and a strange thought crossed his mind.

"It's impossible for the Undercity to support something this large," he mused, his brow furrowing. The weight of this towering civilization seemed too immense to rest on the fragile bones of the Undercity, but somehow, it did. The thought unsettled him in a way he couldn't quite explain.

He walked further, his boots clicking softly against the icy ground. In the past, he had feared the night in this city—always looking over his shoulder, expecting danger in every shadow. But now, those fears seemed foolish. The only people he encountered were drunks and addicts, stumbling through the streets, too lost in their own misery to bother anyone. Zeke smirked, a soft laugh escaping his lips. "What was I so afraid of?"

Eventually, he arrived at the towering edifice of Mega-building 17. The building was as putrid and decrepit as he remembered—a haven for drug addicts and criminals, a place that had once terrified him. Now, it was nothing more than an insect hive to the guardian of District 7.

He opened the door to his apartment, the familiar stench hitting him instantly. The walls were coated in a thick layer of grease, the floors littered with old newspapers and posters, decomposing into a soggy, moldy mess. The stack of unwashed dishes in the kitchen sink had grown sentient, with rats nesting among the dirty plates and rotting food. It was exactly how he had left it.

Zeke walked over to his desk, picking up an old book, its cover caked in dust. He smiled faintly, brushing off the dirt before placing it back on the shelf. "Looks like I've got some cleaning to do," he remarked to himself, the faintest trace of warmth in his voice.

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