Dawn had barely broken when Bix Kutra took the delivery bag down from the hook beside his bed. The fabric still carried the faint smell of plastic and detergent, steeped overnight in the city’s damp air. He bent to check the zippers, the ice pack, the meal straps—his fingers brushing the worn edges polished smooth by repetition. It felt like pressing his own power button.

His phone buzzed: the first order of the day—breakfast sandwiches, two lattes, one fruit bowl, headed for **Juenhoo Capital Tower**.  

He exhaled, forced a small smile at the mirror—the kind meant to convince yourself you’re fine—then slipped on his helmet and swung onto his scooter.

The city had its own rhythm at dawn. Garbage trucks chimed in the distance; soy-milk steam fogged up the arcades; commuters at bus stops checked the time while delivery riders weaved through the gaps like currents of bright fabric. Bix turned into a narrow alley still half-asleep, his delivery bag bumping softly with every crack in the road. He pressed it down with one hand, muttering to himself, *Freedom over stability comes with a price—you end up dating potholes.*

Across the city, **Lilia Quell** drew open her curtains.  

The sky outside her high-rise window was a cleanly ironed sheet of blue.  

She poured black coffee into a white porcelain cup; a thin sheen of oil shimmered on the surface. The table held a half croissant, a bowl of grapefruit slices, and a neat stack of reports she’d printed the night before. Color-coded sticky notes marked *Liquidity*, *Exposure*, and *Agenda*.  

With the flat of her knife, she gathered stray flakes of pastry back onto the plate—her movements as precise as her speech: efficient, nothing wasted.

Her phone lit up: *10 a.m. Investment Committee. Confirm legal language by 9:30. Conference Room 11. Projector test completed.*  

She replied “Got it,” set the cup back on its coaster, and reached for her blazer.  

For her, mornings were never romantic; they were about restoring balance to the line called *control*.  

At the mirror by the door, she applied pale lipstick—the final button on a perfectly fitted persona.

When Bix arrived at the breakfast shop, the kitchen was still in chaos—steam clouding the ceiling, paper bags orbiting the counter like tiny planets.  

He waited in a corner, tweaking his “optimal route” in his head: the second stop was close, the third crossed a cursed intersection with a forever-red light.  

He checked the clock and noticed how the name *Juenhoo Capital Tower* gleamed on the map—too cinematic for real life. Spinning his helmet in his hands, he imagined mirrored walls, revolving doors, security in tailored suits, people whose every sentence sounded like a stock tip.

By nine o’clock, Lilia stepped through the revolving doors of that same tower.  

The lobby shone like a polished piano lid, reflecting moving silhouettes.  

Her heels tapped across marble in metronome precision. Above her, giant LED tickers rolled through exchange rates and futures forecasts. She didn’t slow down—straight to the elevator, button 11.  

The mirrored interior split her reflection into four equally composed faces. She scrolled through a report, rearranging one chart higher in the deck; she liked that—designing the outcome before it happened.

Outside, Bix parked his scooter and squinted up at the glare bouncing off the glass façade. He adjusted the strap of his bag and stepped through the revolving door. Instantly, the air changed—cold-filtered, wax-scented, laced with dark-roast coffee.  

The first thing he noticed was motion—suits and strides, people talking in deadlines. Someone passed, Bluetooth in ear, saying, “Trust me—put the money in, and you’ll profit.”  

The sentence had no commas, only periods. Another man brushed past with a folder thin as a blade.  

Bix stopped, letting his curiosity take inventory of this strange, synchronized ecosystem.

The reception desk curved like a white crescent moon.  

Behind it sat a woman whose smile balanced warmth and order—her nametag read **Lynn Yunqi**.  

“Hi there, need any help?” she asked, her tone the kind that steadies chaos rather than brightens it.

“Morning. Delivery.”  

He showed her the pickup code on his phone. “It says, uh… deliver to the eleventh-floor reception?”  

Lynn glanced at the screen, fingers flying over her keyboard.  

“Yes—conference wing, outside Meeting Room 11. The order’s under *Legal Coordination*. Please scan your ID at that kiosk; it’ll print a visitor tag. Stick it on your bag so security lets you through.”  

Bix nodded, stepped to the self-service scanner.  

The camera caught his face a shade more tired than reality.  

When the sticker slid out, he pressed it carefully onto the bag, making sure it looked straight—some instinct to appear professional.  

Returning to the desk, he accepted the temporary access card Lynn handed him.  

“Elevators are that way—use the far set, tap the card, press 11. They’re setting up a meeting, so it might be crowded. You can drop the food on the small table to the right of the hall; I’ll confirm delivery from here.”  

“Got it.” He smiled, then glanced around again.  

At the coffee bar, people murmured about “hedging,” “windows,” “asset allocation.”  

Even the air here seemed pre-measured by density.

Behind glass upstairs, Lilia clipped the last report into its binder.  

“Print three copies of Legal’s summary and place them by the door tray,” she told her assistant. “We’ll need them for the second segment.”  

Her black coffee was half-gone, a faint ring left on the cup.  

She paused by the window—the city below unfurled like a living circuit board, every road pulsing with purpose.  

After a breath, she turned back, tapping the page that mapped *cash-flow sensitivity.*

Meanwhile, in the elevator, Bix watched the numbers climb.  

His reflection looked strangely disciplined, framed by the straps of his delivery bag.  

A man in a gray suit beside him was glaring at his phone like fighting a war. The man glanced at Bix, then withdrew the look as if it never happened.  

When the doors slid open, the air smelled of coffee and tension—the scent of meetings about to begin.  

He followed directions, set the food on the small side table, and nodded to a staffer guarding some binders. “Thanks,” she said kindly before phoning downstairs to confirm receipt.

Bix stepped back to the corridor’s end, twirling the access card between his fingers.  

On the wall hung an abstract painting—lines intersecting at confident angles.  

Then a voice came from behind the frosted-glass door:  

“Let’s begin.”  

Just two words, calm but commanding enough to make him instinctively straighten.  

He couldn’t see who’d spoken; only a slender silhouette slid past the frosted glass.  

Moments later, the delivery confirmation pinged his phone.  

He slipped the card into his bag, drew one last breath of that crisp, artificial air, and rode the elevator down.  

In the lobby, the man preaching “Trust me—put the money in” had already been replaced by another, talking faster.  

Lynn Yunqi gave him a polite nod; he nodded back, a small exchange between two cogs acknowledging each other in the machinery.  

As he stepped out through the revolving door, the sunlight flared, shoving the city back into motion.  

His phone buzzed with another order.  

Bix hoisted the delivery bag onto his shoulder and smiled faintly.  

*Same morning, same city,* he thought, *but maybe two different hearts beating inside it.*