illphated
The sky was never dark in Neo-Kyros. Holograms flickered in the mist, and neon rain dripped from a skyline packed with steel and glass. The city pulsed with the hum of a million machines, but beneath the glow, the streets were silent.
A procession of workers shuffled forward, their wrists linked by luminous shackles that pulsed in sync with the corporate anthem echoing from towering billboards. Their suits, once crisp and clean, hung in tattered disarray, drenched in the endless drizzle of acid rain. Their faces were hollow, drained of hope, their dreams crushed beneath the weight of endless deadlines and unattainable quotas.
High above them, astride a sleek mechanical beast with glowing red eyes, was the man who owned their lives—Dorian Vale, CEO of KyrosTech Corp. His chrome-plated whip crackled in the air, laced with digital pain, though he rarely needed to use it. Compliance was built into their contracts, coded into their very identities. The people marched not from fear of punishment, but from the absence of any alternative.
“Keep moving,” Vale’s voice boomed, amplified by the AI-driven speakers embedded in every street corner. “Progress waits for no one.”
The workers pressed forward, their shackles dragging through the puddles of neon-lit rain. Somewhere in the distance, a malfunctioning hologram glitched, flickering between an advertisement for a luxury off-world resort and a government-issued PSA:
“Happiness is productivity. Productivity is success.”
A woman in the line—Elara, former marketing executive turned indentured worker—stole a glance upward. Somewhere behind the skyscrapers, beyond the endless clouds, stars still burned. Somewhere beyond Neo-Kyros, life existed without shackles.
As if sensing the thought, Vale’s beast let out a low, mechanical growl. Elara lowered her head.
The city rumbled, and the march continued.
Somewhere, beneath all the neon, a rebellion simmered.