Kaelen sat on a bench made of recycled polymer, watching the "ghost buses"—autonomous, translucent pods—glide into their docking bays. Terminal 1.39 was the lowest level of the central hub, a place where the air tasted like ozone and burnt rubber, and the passengers were mostly those trying to disappear.
Just then, a low-frequency rumble shook the floor. A battered, matte-black bus pulled into Bay 12. Its doors hissed open, releasing a cloud of cooling vapor. There was no driver, only a flickering holographic interface of an old woman knitting. DETBITINIS AUTOBUSOS TERMINALAS 1.39
