He stood and followed the line of the wall by eye. The tubes angled toward the dark tower. So did the venting. So did a buried conduit exposed where roots had lifted a stone. Then he turned the other way and saw the same routes bending toward lower transfer shafts at the edge of the district. Not one system. A junction. Food in, air through, waste out, movement managed, and somewhere inside that pattern human labor still threaded the parts the surface residents never saw.

They crossed a narrow maintenance lane where no one was meant to linger. Here the city smelled different. Less blossom, more damp filters and old metal warmed by hidden motors. On the wall above another sealed panel, faded stencils showed a ring symbol paired with a descending cargo mark and, beneath both, a line of simplified figures entering separate channels. The paint had nearly gone, but not enough.

Elias looked at it for a long time.

The climate exodus had not erased class. It had built it into the city itself.

Move the vulnerable upward into managed comfort. Move authority farther still, into orbit, beyond weather and unrest. Keep memory thin on the surface. Keep labor below. Turn dependence into routine and routine into culture so complete that questions die before they form. Not an accident of evolution. A design choice made under pressure and then polished until it looked natural.

Lina stepped closer and searched his face. "Elias?"