Racing Through a Neon Hallway to the Noodle Stall

Racing Through a Neon Hallway to the Noodle Stall

I was late for the shift at the noodle stall on the 12th floor, and the elevator was a narrow glass shaft that kept stopping at random floors that looked like old subway stations. When the doors finally opened, the hallway was twice as long as it should be, lined with flickering neon signs advertising augmented‑reality tattoos. I ran, but my shoes felt like they were made of lead and I could barely move. I tried to pull out my badge, but it was stuck to my wrist like a smart‑band I never bought. A coworker I hadn't seen since college—Mara, but with a cybernetic eye implant—was standing by a vending machine that dispensed hot coffee in a glass cup that glowed blue. She smiled, then her face flickered and turned into my manager's. I panicked, looking for the back door, but every door led to the same cramped kitchen, and I couldn't find my locker. Finally I woke up to the sound of the actual street traffic outside my apartment, still half‑expecting the neon hallway to keep going.