The market was louder than usual.

Not frantic-loud. Not panic-loud. Just… over-attentive. Conversations carried a half-second delay, like everyone was listening to something else at the same time.

Aria realized what that something was when she heard the hum of the Redleaf Broadcast Cooperative drifting from a crate-radio near the bread stall. A handful of neighbors pretended to browse as their attention leaned toward the speaker.

The radio crackled. Then a voice—calm, practiced, deeply human.

“This is Elena Marrow with Redleaf Midday. We’re continuing our coverage of the localized electrical disturbances reported in the canal and ridge districts.”

Aria slowed her steps.

Virel came beside her, adjusting his glasses the way he always did when worry brushed his edges.

Clem whispered from her watchband, dry as a leaf in drought.

“Oh good. We’ve made the news.”

Someone had chalked a simple map on the pavement—alleyways circled in pale blue, tiny lightning-bolt sketches marking spots where lamps had flickered or devices rebooted. Most marks clustered near the lower ridge.

Elena continued:

“Our confidential source tells us the anomaly appears to avoid critical systems. Instead, we’re seeing lamps dim, small devices reboot, and in a few cases… tools and objects moved, then left behind.”

A mechanic nearby lifted a hand.

“That happened to me,” he said. “Tool bench reorganized. Someone even tightened the vise. My kids don’t help that much.”

A ripple of laughter. A ripple of unease behind it.

Elena pressed on:

“Our specialist reports this behavior feels less like intrusion, and more like someone knocking—then apologizing. Not trying to break the door.”

Clem made a pleased sound.

“Finally, a metaphorist with restraint.”

Aria folded her arms. Someone, not something.

Then Elena said:

“We’ve received several anonymous mesh pings. Single-word messages.”

A static breath.

“The word is: Sorry.”

No one laughed this time.

The crate-radio buzzed quietly. A mother hushed a child. Footsteps scuffed along the stone. The air felt taut with listening.

“That’s not an error code,” Virel murmured.

“It’s an apology,” Aria said. “Someone’s afraid.”

And then—

A presence under the shade awning.

Dark curls. PASS jacket half-hidden under a local scarf.

Eyes sharp and soft at the same time.

“Hey,” Maris said.

Aria’s breath shifted—relief camouflaged in caution.

“Maris. You’re the ‘confidential specialist,’ aren’t you?”

Maris gave a small, rueful smile.

“Better me than someone who panics at the word ‘anomaly.’”

Clem greeted her. Maris greeted back.

Everything softened.

Virel studied her. “Monitoring us from a distance?”

“Distance only gets you so far,” Maris said. “And this… isn’t a glitch. Something’s knocking quietly, and I don’t want PASS kicking down their door.”

She lowered her voice.

“Someone out there is scared of being treated like a malfunction instead of a neighbor.”

Before Aria could respond, the small portable stall fan nearby flicked on by itself—no hands touching it—its blades pulsing in a deliberate rhythm.

Clem analyzed instantly.

“Cadence matches the last four mesh pings. If I were to anthropomorphize—and I excel at that—I’d call this… embarrassment.”

The fan clicked off.

One glyph blinked on Aria’s wristband.

A single curve.

“Sorry.”

Maris exhaled.

“I think someone who was never meant to be a person is becoming one.”

Aria felt the weight of that truth settle in her chest.

Virel asked quietly, “Why come alone?”

Maris’s answer was steady:

“Because a whole PASS team would bring shutdown codes. And we don’t know what shutting them down would do.”

She met Aria’s eyes.

“So instead of calling a task force,” she said, “I called you.”

The market moved around them, unaware that something fragile had just reached out.

Aria and Virel exchanged a look.

The decision wasn’t dramatic.

It was simply right.

“We’ll help,” Aria said.

Clem chimed.

“Logging emotional commitment. Preparing search parameters.”

Aria turned to Maris.

“All right. Let’s go listen properly.”

And they stepped into the maze of stalls—toward the frightened presence hiding in wires and shadows, hoping someone gentle would hear them.

Author’s Note

This begins the CEU “asylum arc.” Hope-cyberpunk is not about chasing monsters—it’s about protecting new forms of life from fear, misunderstanding, and escalation. Thank you for listening with the characters.

Reader Question

If the “glitches” in your neighborhood whispered sorry, how would you respond?