The city doesn't sleep anymore.
It just… waits.
Not the tense, teeth-clenched waiting of a hostage.
More like the hush after someone says grace and nobody's started eating yet.
District Seven at noon feels like 3 a.m. in a hospital corridor: too bright, too quiet, everyone moving slow so they don't wake whatever's dreaming.
A windsock on the west flyover flaps once, then hangs straight even though there's no wind.
Buoys on the river line up like they're in roll call.
Every antenna on every roof points the same impossible degree off true north.
Ryo stands on the pedestrian bridge, pin warm in his pocket like a second pulse. Below him, people walk like they're trying not to step on cracks that aren't there yet.
He thumbs the comm. "Mara. You feel that?"
Her voice comes back dry as ever. "Feel what?"
"The city's holding its breath."
Long pause.
Then: "Define breath."
He almost smiles. "Working on it."
—
Central Command is weirdly polite today. No shouting. No running. Just the soft shuffle of boots that know the floor might be listening.
Kwan looks like he hasn't slept since the concept was invented. He's got a holo up, waving his hands through graphs that look like someone ironed the chaos out of them.
"It's flat," he says, half laughing, half scared. "The Hollow Code isn't spreading anymore. It's… resting. Like the city took a Valium and actually worked."
Mara folds her arms. "Where's the catch?"
Kwan points to little black coins drifting across the map—blank spots where sensors just shrug and say nothing to see here.
"Catch is these. Mute zones. Not dead. Just… refusing to answer. Like they unplugged their own mouths."
Ryo rubs the spot under his ribs. The hum is still there, but it's different now. Quieter. Like a dog that finally learned "stay."
Mara catches his eye. "Field trip?"
He nods. "Yeah. One of those spots is calling my name. And it's using really good manners."
—
The mute spot is under a street nobody bothered naming. Just glass offices with fake plants, a ramen place with the CLOSED sign turned like a shield, and scaffolding that looks like it's waiting for a building to change its mind.
They take the service stairs down. The air gets thick, like breathing through cotton that forgot how to be air.
Halfway down, the comms fuzz out. Not static—just nothing. Like the signal took a coffee break.
Mara's voice still reaches him, but it's inside his head now, small and close.
"Ryo?"
"It's… soft," he says. "Like the world turned the volume all the way down and then took the knob home."
They reach the bottom. Broken tiles, dripping pipe, emergency lights doing their best sad Christmas impression.
At the end of the tunnel is a maintenance door standing open like it's been waiting for company.
Sato sweeps first. Comes back shaking his head. "Nothing. Or everything. Hard to tell."
Kwan steps past him and just… stops. Stares. Smiles like a kid who found the secret level.
"It's beautiful," he whispers.
Mara sighs. "Kwan."
"Right. Sorry." He points at the air like it's a painting. "Look at the dust. It's not falling. It's… choosing not to."
Ryo steps forward.
The world gets smoother.
Not peaceful.
Smooth.
Like someone erased all the rough edges and forgot to put them back.
He reaches toward the nothing.
His hand stops at a line that isn't there.
Not cold.
Not resistance.
Just… no.
Like the universe saying "private event" and meaning it.
The Hollow Code under his ribs perks up, curious.
For a second he feels something on the other side—round, dense, patient. It breathes.
He pulls his hand back.
Mara's voice, soft: "Talk to me."
"It's listening," he says. "But it doesn't want to be heard."
Rey swallows. "That's… worse, somehow."
Kwan is crying a little, the happy kind. "It's a Signal Void. A deliberate mute. Not blocking—refusing. It's saying 'no comment' to reality itself."
Sato mutters, "I hate this job."
Mara doesn't take her eyes off Ryo. "Can you talk to it?"
"I'm trying," he says.
He steps closer again.
This time he doesn't push.
He just says, "Hello."
The nothing tilts.
Like a head turning slow to see who's at the door.
—
The door opens wider on its own. No creak. Just… invitation.
Inside is a room that used to be for cables and now is for something else. Eight black rods twisted into a cage. In the middle, a prism that isn't shiny. It's the opposite of shiny.
Ryo knows it the way you know a song you hate but can't stop humming.
Mara's hand hovers near his back, not touching. "Don't."
"I know."
Kwan is already whispering, "It's a refusal engine. It doesn't block signals; it makes them un-ask themselves."
Ryo steps closer.
The prism doesn't glow. It just… is.
He lifts the pin.
The room breathes.
Not air.
Presence.
Like the whole city leaned in.
The not-word lands in his head, soft, inevitable:
UNTIE
Not a threat.
An offer.
Mara's voice, far away: "Ryo."
"I see it," he says.
He sees the knot—not rope, not code, just the shape of things pretending to be separate. Around the pin. Around the city. Around every name anyone ever tried to keep.
"If I untie you," he asks the prism, "you leave?"
The refusal thins.
The room warms.
It shows him the knot around his name.
He could loosen it.
He could let something go that's been holding the city hostage with silence.
He could let the void walk away clean.
Mara whispers, "Keep it."
He looks at her.
Then at the prism.
Then at the pin.
He unties one degree.
Just enough for the city to breathe again.
The prism dims.
The room exhales.
The mute spot folds itself up like a letter nobody needs to send.
—
Outside, the city remembers how to make noise.
Not loud.
Just… human.
Traffic hums.
A kid laughs too loud at something stupid.
A drone forgets to be creepy and just flies straight.
Ryo stands on the sidewalk, pin cool in his hand.
Mara stops beside him.
"You bought us time," she says.
"No," he says. "It bought us quiet."
She looks at him for a long second.
"Same thing," she decides.
He smiles, small, tired, real.
"Yeah," he says. "For now."
The pin stays warm.
But it doesn't tug.
Not yet.