The days blurred together.  

Mornings bled into nights, orders into addresses, traffic lights into waiting. The city played the same loop, and Bix Kutra was just another rhythm inside it—riding through puddles left by yesterday’s rain, chasing the next vibration from his phone.

Every so often, the route took him back to Juenhoo Capital Tower.  

He’d glance up at its mirrored surface and wonder, without meaning to, if the woman who’d spoken up for him that day was somewhere behind one of those identical panes of glass.  

Sometimes he thought about saying thank you again.  

But that idea never lasted. She was from another orbit, and he wasn’t built for gravity that strong. He’d shrug, adjust his helmet, and let the thought fade under the sound of engines and wind.

By Friday night, exhaustion was layered over him like dust.  

His wrists ached, his shoulders burned, and the red mark from his delivery strap had become a permanent stripe across his skin. The time on his phone read 8:22.

“Enough for today,” he muttered, locking the app.

He rode aimlessly for a few minutes before turning into a quieter street lit by amber lamps. The smell of garlic and soy greeted him before the sign came into view: **Lotus Corner**, a small Asian diner tucked between a laundromat and a florist.  

Inside, the noise was warm—pans clattering, someone laughing in the kitchen.  

A bell above the door chimed as he entered.

“Hey, you again!” called the waitress behind the counter.  

Her name was **Emma Klein**—a university student working nights, blond hair tied up in a loose knot, an apron smudged with soy sauce but paired with a smile that made the place feel brighter than its lights.  

“Yeah,” Bix said, setting down his helmet. “Long day.”

“The usual? Dumplings?”

He hesitated. “Yeah. Just dumplings. Gotta save a bit.”

Emma laughed. “You say that every time.”  

She turned toward the kitchen. “One dumpling set!”

Steam hissed from the back, filling the air with the smell of ginger and chives.  

When the plate arrived, there was an extra dish beside it—small cubes of fried tofu, still sizzling.

“What’s this?” Bix asked, surprised.

“House secret,” she said with a conspiratorial grin. “Manager’s off tonight. I’m treating you.”  

He blinked, then chuckled. “Guess I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

“Good answer.” She crossed her arms playfully. “You know, you’ve eaten here half the nights this month. If this keeps up, I’ll have to charge tuition.”

“Tuition?”

“I’m in college,” she said. “If I’m gonna teach you how to budget, you should at least pay the course fee.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Can’t afford it. I’ll settle for buying you a donut instead.”

“From Mogudal?” she said, eyebrows raised. “Too sweet.”

“You know that place too?”

“Of course. I pass it every day. City’s smaller than it looks.”  

He nodded, taking a bite of the dumplings. The soy sauce was perfectly salty, and the tofu cracked under his teeth—crispy shell, soft inside. For a second, all the noise of the city dissolved into warmth and oil and comfort.  

“So,” she asked, wiping her hands on her apron, “working tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Delivery never takes a day off. Freedom’s the best and worst part of it.”  

“Maybe,” she said with a small shrug. “At least you’ve got choices. I’ve got an essay due and a ten-hour shift.”  

He watched her walk back to the counter, and a quiet thought settled in his chest:  

everyone in this city was running—some in heels, some on scooters, some behind cash registers.  

When he finished eating, he stacked his dishes neatly and stood. “Thanks, Emma. Night.”

“Night, Bix,” she said with a grin.

Outside, the air had cooled. A soft wind carried the smell of rain and exhaust.  

He adjusted the strap of his delivery bag and glanced at his phone; more late-night orders were waiting.

But before restarting the app, his mind replayed the briefest image—Lilia Quell’s voice cutting through a stranger’s anger, her calm like a single clean note in the noise of the world.  

He shook his head, smiling to himself. Some thoughts were luxuries, not plans.  

Helmet on. Engine started. The city lights stretched into ribbons again.  

Deliveries continued—and life, too.  

Only now, a thought that shouldn’t exist had quietly taken root somewhere inside him.