He searched the frame inch by inch. There were sensor bands hidden in the bronze, thin and almost colorless, and two recessed joints low near the threshold that looked made for a lift or sliding lock. A machine-built entrance. A real one. Not decorative. Not symbolic. Used, at least once. He could see polish on the lower edge where something had passed close to it over and over.

He looked around, found a dead branch at the border of the path, braced and snapped it against his knee with a sharp pull that lit his side with pain, then slid the flatter end into the seam and tried to lever the panel away from the frame. The branch bent. Bark peeled under his hand. The door did not even rattle. He changed angle, hunted for a weak point, drove the wood in harder, and the branch broke with a dry crack that echoed much louder than it should have in the still morning.

Elias stood very still after that, broken wood in his fist, his breath held behind his teeth.

An advanced city. Responsive systems everywhere. A population that seemed unable to name the things that fed and moved and sheltered them. And one dead service door hidden under decorative growth, sealed against touch, voice, force, and what looked very much like public access.

He let the branch fall. The visible world, he thought, was theater. Pleasant, soft, beautifully maintained theater. The hands that ran it were somewhere else.