Chasing the Subway Through an Endless Chrome Corridor

Chasing the Subway Through an Endless Chrome Corridor

I was late for the subway, sprinting down the hallway of my apartment building, but the corridor kept stretching forever. The neon signs above the doors flickered "Apt 12B" and "Apt 12C" at the same time, and I couldn't tell which was mine. I finally reached the elevator, only to find it was a glass capsule with a holographic display showing my name and a scrolling list of my morning tasks. I pressed the button, and the doors opened onto a street that looked like the downtown market I pass on my way to work, except every stall was run by people with chrome implants and glowing tattoos. I tried to buy a coffee, but the vendor asked for a biometric scan; my phone was dead, and I couldn't find my wristband. A classmate from high school, now wearing a corporate badge, walked by and smiled, but his face kept flickering between his old teenage self and a sleek AI avatar. I felt a wave of panic, then the train screeched past, and I woke up just as the doors were closing.