Hollow grins pedal toward a light they cannot reach.

Somewhere beneath the city, joy has been metered and assigned a deadline, its wattage measured on a dial between zero and one hundred. The workers pedal toward a light they will never reach, smiling on command while the overseer holds his stopwatch like a priest holds a relic. The tunnel does not end so much as it exhales, breathing them forward into a quota they cannot refuse.

Jul 5, 2026

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