Chasing Neon Lights Through an Endless Apartment Hallway

Chasing Neon Lights Through an Endless Apartment Hallway

I was late for the subway, sprinting down the hallway of my apartment building that somehow stretched forever. The neon signs outside flickered, advertising a new neural‑upgrade clinic, but I couldn't see the platform. I slipped into the lobby and the concierge—half‑human, half‑AI hologram—handed me a badge I didn't recognize. I tried to scan it, but the reader kept flashing red. Suddenly the elevator doors opened onto a grocery store aisle instead of the basement. I grabbed a bag of synth‑rice, but the price tag displayed my credit score. A coworker from three years ago, who now runs a street‑food stall, waved from the checkout, asking if I’d tried the new bio‑spice. I fumbled for my phone, only to realize it was a sleek wrist implant I never owned. The train screeched past, doors closing on me, and I woke up just as the neon lights of the hallway flickered back to ordinary fluorescent bulbs.