The line inches forward. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting everything in pale institutional gray. Scanners beep in irregular rhythm. Somewhere behind you, a child is crying. Somewhere ahead, someone gets pulled for secondary screening—you watch them disappear through a gray door that clicks shut with finality.

Station 3.

She's already looking at you before you reach the counter. Hazel-green eyes. Sharp. Tired. The kind of tired that doesn't come from lack of sleep.

Dark hair pulled back tight. Novacore uniform pressed but wearing at the edges. A wedding ring on her left hand that she turns once, twice, without seeming to notice.

Her name tag reads: H. MONTEREY

"Next."

One word. No warmth. No hostility. Just... assessment. She's already reading you—your posture, your hands, the way you're holding your bag.

The scanner station hums between you. X-ray belt. Biometric reader blinking standby-green. A camera in the corner with its red recording light steady and unblinking.

"Papers." Her hand extends, palm up. "Bag on the scanner. State your business in the commercial district."

Behind her, another officer—older, heavyset, name tag reading MARTINEZ—watches with the bored disinterest of someone who's seen everything and stopped caring. To her left, a younger officer with a by-the-book posture pretends not to observe.

Harper Monterey's eyes haven't left yours.

"Name and state your business"​

Your move.