The imperceptible vibration against my lower back was a constant, a reminder as familiar as the polluted air that filled my lungs every morning. It was the proximity scanner built into my clothing, an invisible thread connecting me to the System's vast network. Every step I took, every turn around a corner, every time I paused in front of a storefront, it sent a brief pulse of information: my location, my heart rate, even, according to rumors circulating in the digital underworld, my mood based on subtle changes in my body temperature and the dilation of my pupils.
Today, like every day, the city awoke under the watchful eye of thousands of electronic eyes. Cameras, omnipresent like metal birds of prey, adorned every streetlight, every cornice of the gray skyscrapers that scratched the leaden sky, every discreet post in the synthetic parks. Their dark lenses seemed to follow my every move, recording, analyzing, archiving. There was no corner, no matter how dark it seemed on the obsolete maps that some old ones still preserved, where one could escape their silent scrutiny. Even public restrooms, so bitter jokes said, had sensors to ensure that the time spent in them did not exceed the limits permitted by "citizen welfare."
As I walked along the gray, uniform sidewalk, just another slab in the endless mosaic of Main Avenue, I mingled with a crowd of equally dull faces. Heads lowered, gazes shifty, each absorbed in their own bubble of resignation. We were anonymous cogs in the vast machinery of the System, our individualities carefully filed to fit the prefabricated mold of the "model citizen." I felt that invisible pressure, that constant echo of surveillance, like a weight on my shoulders, a cold whisper reminding me of my place.
It wasn't a direct threat, not always. Sometimes it was just a cold feeling on the back of my neck, the certainty that I wasn't alone, even in the middle of a crowd. Other times, it manifested in the personalized messages that appeared on public screens just as I walked by. Today, one such screen, embedded in the facade of a gleaming corporate building, displayed an ad targeted specifically to my ID: "Kang Gun, remember your emotional wellness appointment scheduled for Tuesday. A happy citizen is a productive citizen." A pang of irony, mixed with a dose of irritation, ran through my stomach. Scheduled emotional wellness? As if my feelings were as predictable and controllable as the subway schedule.
I clenched my jaw, trying to ignore the slight tingling the scan on my back seemed to intensify. It wasn't paranoia, it was reality. In this city, my ID was more important than my name. Kang Gun was just a label, a data set. My employment history (low-paying, temporary jobs), my consumption patterns (mostly basic food staples and low-cost entertainment subscriptions), my social interactions (limited and monitored)—everything was logged, analyzed, and used to maintain "order." An order that, to me, increasingly felt like an invisible cage, made of data and algorithms, where every attempt to flutter was subtly repressed.
In front of a cyber-parts store, an elderly man with a wrinkled face and tired eyes stumbled, dropping a small bag of tools. Several citizens walked past him unfazed, their gazes fixed on the pavement or their personal devices. Instinctively, I stopped. Bending down, I picked up the bag and handed it back to him.
"Thank you, young man," he murmured in a raspy voice, his trembling hands barely touching mine.
"It's nothing," I replied, avoiding eye contact. In that brief moment, I felt the gaze of a nearby camera bore down on us. One small act of humanity, and we were already under scrutiny.
As the old man slowly walked away, I wondered if he, too, felt this constant weight, this silent echo of surveillance reminding us that we weren't masters of our own lives. Or had resignation become the norm, as natural a part of the urban landscape as smog and the clangs of automated transportation?
I continued on my way, the feeling of the camera still lingering on my back. I knew this small act wouldn't go unnoticed. My "citizenship score" had probably increased slightly, a small reward for social obedience. But inside, a seed of rebellion was beginning to germinate, fueled by frustration and a longing for something more than this controlled and predictable existence. Something more than being a mere shadowy ID.
What's Kang-gun most worried about right now? Where is he headed? Is there a specific goal for this day that could add more context to the story's opening?
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