If the Palace of Night & Day was the crown of the world, the district known as the "Iron Lung" was its bowels.
Here, gravity felt heavier. The darkness wasn't just an absence of light; it was a physical weight that pressed against the shoulders of the millions who lived—and died—without ever seeing the sky.
The district was a vertical maze of misery. Housing units, made from rusted shipping containers and salvaged scrap metal, were stacked atop one anotherr like rotting teeth In a giant, metal jaw. There were no streets, only narrow walkways made of grating that rattled over endless pits of machinery.
The air didn't just smell; It had a texture. It coated the back of the throat with a film of copper, heavy oil, and the faint, copper tang of dried blood.
High above the residential stack, clinging to the side of a ventilation shaft like two Insects, were Victor and Kyle.
"Hold it steady," Victor grunted, his voice muffled by a dirty rag tied around hIs face. He was waist-deep in a mess of severed cables, hIs hands covered in black grease.
"It's heavy, Victor," Kyle replied. He was holding the massive fan blade—a piece of Industrial steel weighing at least three hundred pounds—above his head with one arm. His muscles trembled slightly, sweat carving rivers through the soot on his face. "And It smells like something died in the intake."
"Something probably did," Victor muttered, twisting two copper wires together. Sparks rained down on them, sizzling against their damp clothes. "A rat. Or a scavenger who slipped. Don't think about it."
They were "Fixers"—the lowest caste of workers. Their job was to keep the ancient, failing machinery of the Abyss running just enough to prevent everyone from suffocating. They had no memories of being a NavIgator or a Breaker. To them, this rust was all there ever was.
Kyle shifted his stance on the narrow beam. He looked up. Way up.
Through the massive, rusted slats of the ventilation shaft, he could see a faint, distant glow. It wasn't light; It was just a slightly lighter shade of gray. The legendary "Upper World."
"Victor…" Kyle asked, his voice echoing softly In the metal tube. He wiped a mixture of oil and sweat from his eyes with his free hand.
"What?" Victor didn't look up. He was busy bypassing a blown fuse with a piece of scrap metal.
"Do you think the sun is real?"
Victor paused. The sparks stopped falling.
"What kind of question is that?"
"A serious one," Kyle said, staring at the distant gray patch. " The elders talk about It. A ball of fire that warms your skin without burning It. A light that doesn't flicker." He looked down at Victor. "Or is It just a big lamp that the rich people own? Do they have a switch up there, Victor? Do they turn It off when they want us to sleep?"
The question hung in the stagnant air, heavy and innocent. It was the kind of question that got people killed In the Abyss. Hope was a dangerous commodity down here.
Victor finished the splice. He wiped his greasy hands on his pants and looked up at his friend. He saw the genuine curiosity in Kyle's eyes—the eyes of a child trapped In the body of a giant.
Victor offered a bitter, crooked smile.
"It doesn't matter, Kyle," Victor said, his voice flat but not unkind. He pointed at the mess of gears and wires In front of him. "We are here to fix the gears, not to ask about the engine."
He pulled the activation lever.
CLUNK. HISS.
The massive fan blade in Kyle's hand jerked. Kyle released it just In time as the engine roared to life. Slowly, painfully, the giant blades began to spin.
Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.
A draft of air—stale, recycled, and smelling of ozone—blasted down the shaft. It wasn't fresh, but compared to the stagnant heat of the Abyss, it felt like a blessing.
Victor watched the fan spin, the rhythmic shadow flickering across his face.
"Besides," Victor whispered, more to himself than to Kyle. "If the sun were real… why would It leave us down here in the dark?"