Takeshi’s alarm chirped at 5:30 AM, a pleasant tone completely at odds with the crushing reality it heralded. He blinked awake in his 12-square-meter apartment, the ceiling display automatically transitioning from night mode to display the air quality index (poor), temperature (24°C), and his daily carbon allowance (dangerously low).

“Lights,” he mumbled, and the efficient LEDs embedded in the ceiling panels illuminated his entire home with a single command. It wasn’t much of a command, really—the apartment management AI had learned his patterns years ago. The toilet-shower combo unit was already warming up in the corner.

Takeshi sat up on his convertible couch-bed and rubbed his eyes. Through his only window—a narrow vertical slit of actual glass—he could see fragments of the megacity: streams of transport drones, the pulsing advertisements on the building opposite, and the permanent haze that turned the rising sun into a diffuse red smear.

His morning routine was precisely calibrated. Three minutes in the shower (water recycling fee automatically deducted from his account), two minutes to brush his teeth while the bed folded back into the wall and the kitchen unit extended. While his single-serve protein shake mixed (soy-based, the real stuff was far beyond his pay grade), Takeshi dressed in his regulation gray suit.

“News,” he said, and his wall screen cycled through the approved headlines. Resource shortages in the outer districts. A celebrity divorce. A new entertainment sim breaking subscription records. Nothing about the riots in District 7 that his neighbor had mentioned yesterday.

At 6:15, he left his apartment, joining the stream of identical gray suits in the narrow corridor. The elevator was packed with silent commuters, all staring at their personal screens, careful not to make eye contact.

The building lobby was chaotic as usual—delivery drones dropping packages, security AIs scanning faces, and advertisements screaming from every surface. “Takeshi Miyamoto! Your carbon footprint could be reduced by 15% with NutriSoy breakfast options! Click here for instant delivery!”

He ignored the personalized ad and stepped out into the acidic morning air. The carbon mask over his face filtered the worst of it, but he could still taste the metallic tang of pollutants. The transit pod station was only two blocks away, but he’d have to hurry to catch the 6:30.

The streets were crowded with other commuters, street vendors selling synthetic foodstuffs, and the occasional security drone hovering overhead. A beggar sat against a wall, his augmented reality sign floating above him: “Veteran—Combat Implants—Need Credits for Maintenance.” Takeshi averted his eyes and walked faster.

He made it to the pod station just as the doors were closing, squeezing into the overcrowded transport capsule that would take him across the city to the Central Administrative Complex. For twenty-five minutes, he stood pressed against strangers, all of them sealed in their private worlds of earbuds and neural feeds.

At 7:10, Takeshi exited the pod and joined the river of humanity flowing into the enormous government complex. Security scans, identity verifications, and carbon expenditure calculations slowed the entrance process, but by 7:25, he was riding the elevator to the 157th floor.

Department 12-C was already humming with activity when he arrived. Takeshi nodded to a few colleagues as he made his way to his cubicle—a small transparent box among hundreds of identical ones. He placed his palm on the reader, and his workstation hummed to life.

“Good morning, Analyst Miyamoto,” said the system in its pleasant, genderless voice. “You have 237 files to process today. Your efficiency rating yesterday was 94.2%. The national carbon emergency requires an increase in processing speed of 3% today. Would you like to begin?”

“Yes,” said Takeshi, settling into his chair.

The first file appeared on his screen: a citizen profile with consumption patterns, travel history, genetic predispositions, and social value metrics. Takeshi quickly scanned the numbers, applied the algorithmic guidelines he’d memorized, and made his decision with a simple tap on the screen.

Red for termination. Green for continuation.

He pressed red. The file disappeared, replaced immediately by another. Takeshi stifled a yawn and glanced at his watch—seven hours and thirty-five minutes until lunch. His finger hovered over the screen, tapping red again with the same disinterested precision he might use to swat a fly.