The first class of the afternoon wasn't on the regular schedule. The classroom's projection wall dimmed slowly, and an embedded sliding door opened. A human researcher stepped through, dressed in a crisp white lab coat, his expression calm and composed. He wasn't a virtual projection—he was real.
His introduction was short and sharp: "I'm Warren. This session is 'Structural Observation Practice.'"
Standing at the podium, he activated a terminal, projecting a simplified diagram of the city's layered structure.
"You're currently in the mid-level B1 teaching module of Cenith City," he said. "Above us is the research core. Below, the service-oriented city structure, divided into multiple functional zones."
With a few taps, the diagram rotated and expanded.
"Cenith's city model is a vertically nested ring design. Five layers, from top to bottom: A-layer research zone, B-layer simulation zone, C-layer human residential services, D-layer abandoned fringe, and the X-layer unknown data-shielded zone. Today, you'll leave the simulation teaching module and head to the C0-to-C2 human residential layers for your first field observation."
Silas stood smoothly, his terminal switching to observation mode. Gideon walked beside him, steps light, unsurprised by the announcement.
The teaching module maintained an almost unnaturally perfect silence.
The air was triple-filtered, the temperature locked at a constant, and even the walls' faint glow seemed calculated for gentle reflection. The flooring was high-density soundproofing, swallowing footsteps. Doors slid open with a low-frequency hum—no clicks, no creaks, no wind.
This was a tamed building.
At the corridor's end, a vertical transparent window opened in the wall. The outside world appeared like a city slice preserved in liquid, stripped of tangible depth. Silas paused, gazing out. Beyond the window wasn't a simulated projection but the real city's upper skyline. From this height, Cenith resembled a slowly rotating metallic honeycomb. Silver-gray conduits wove between towering structures, magnetic levitation vehicles darting like ants in a dense, orderly swarm. The ground below blurred into an outdated circuit board, human figures reduced to flickering specks amid machinery, bionics, and transport arms—a dizzying, meticulous order.
"Ant colony view," Gideon murmured, standing beside him.
They entered the main elevator shaft, a central lift reserved for research module transit, its transparent walls offering a clear view of the city's vertical layers as it moved.
Warren stood inside, poised like a system administrator.
"You're in Cenith's B1 simulation teaching layer," he said. "We're heading to the ground level, the real zone."
The elevator was massive, designed for research teams and observation groups. Its light-wall displayed their current position:
B1 — Upper Teaching Layer
Destination: Ground Platform · 1F
Access Authorized
Silas watched streams of light race along folded tracks outside, like blood pulsing through arteries. In the distance, massive floating billboards rotated lazily, casting flickering blue shadows. Crowds below grew denser, pixel-like in their movement.
With each descending layer, the city's reality sharpened.
Buildings shed their pristine, simulated edges, revealing stains, cracks, and the patina of aged metal. Catenary cables sagged beneath transit tracks, condensation dripping midair. The air carried unfiltered dust.
For the first time, Silas noticed the city had a smell.
The elevator stopped smoothly at the ground floor, facing a towering city complex.
After a brief hiss of pressure equalization, the doors slid open, and the world's volume surged.
Sounds flooded in—human voices, the roar of passing vehicles, the metallic grind of robotic arms, looped civic broadcasts, and a monotone ad-bot repeating, "Cenith City, where intelligence defines life—"
Silas froze for a second.
It was too much noise.
His auditory system triggered noise reduction, yet countless sound sources still overlapped across frequencies. The light was different too—not the precise white of the module but a chaotic blend of sunlight refracting off skyscrapers, electronic billboards, flashing traffic signals, and sharp glints from polished metal. The city felt like a living, glowing organism.
They stood at the entrance to the main ground platform.
Before them loomed a towering central building, its glass facade mirroring the sky and their own reflections—ghosts out of place in the city's pulse.
They were just students on a school-organized tour, or so it seemed. Warren led them through the lobby to a maglev train station.
This was Cenith's main platform, the lowest structural layer, the city's "gateway."
Crowds flowed past: some wore earpieces, hurrying along; a mother held a child's hand; cleaning robots in work uniforms wove through, sweeping; a vending cart hummed softly, "Please scan for your drink."
"We're out!" a girl's voice called from behind.
It was their classmates—young scientists, faces bright. They stepped out of the elevator in clusters, some exclaiming, "Way livelier than the sim zone!" Others snapped photos with their terminals or sent messages: "So crowded, like a weekend market."
The human students' voices, expressions, and movements shattered the elevator's brief silence.
"Hurry up, the train's coming!"
"This line's one of the closest to real human life in the lower city."
"Heard there's a pet market further west."
Silas lingered at the back, watching. The human students blended into the city like water merging with a stream, seamless.
He and the other three AIs—Gideon, Jett, and Noah—moved through the crowd, as if coated in an invisible film, untouched by the city's warmth.
Gideon stepped closer, whispering, "This is 'real liveliness.'"
Silas didn't reply.
They followed the group through the crowd to the maglev station on the platform's west side.
Glass barriers lined the platform, revealing the city's lower transit layer below, where blue-glowing maglev tracks snaked like veins through intricate streets.
A train glided silently into the station, its sleek surface reflecting the platform's ad-lights, seamless and futuristic, like a shard of light from a higher world.
"Line up," Warren said without turning.
The students boarded in order.
As Silas stepped into the carriage, his auditory system muted the external noise to a low hum. A brief weightlessness hit as the train sensed full capacity, sealed its doors, and launched without warning.
The city unfurled outside the windows like a living, three-dimensional painting.
They passed dense residential blocks, floating staircases, mobile convenience stores, retail terminals, childcare platforms, skybridges linking buildings, and ubiquitous AI assistants. Billboards flashed slogans:
"Coexist with AI, or become one."
"Choose a smart home—let emotions be understood."
"EVR: We define the love you feel."
Silas's eyes lingered on the last one, his lids twitching, but he said nothing.
The train was quiet and spacious, its seats cushioned with fluid tech, absorbing all vibrations even at high speed. Human students sat in clusters, some discussing the architecture, others analyzing transit systems, a few already drafting observation reports on their terminals.
No one looked at them.
It was as if they, too, were just "young students," only quieter.
Silas sat by the window, hands folded in his lap, watching buildings whip past.
On an open platform, he saw a girl perched on a bionic's shoulders, laughing as she fed pigeons. The bionic's shell was worn, its right eye ringed with repair marks, yet it held her steadily, movements soft, almost warm.
Further along, at a restaurant entrance, two bionics managed a queue. A young man clapped one on the shoulder, saying something. The bionic turned, flashing a smile—not a programmed response but a slow, imperfect one, caught between mimicry and glitch.
The train slowed, and a system voice announced:
"Next stop: Cenith-C2 Lifestyle Exhibit Zone."
Silas's gaze sharpened.
"Lifestyle," he murmured, repeating the word.
Gideon, beside him, caught it. He tilted his head. "Think 'lifestyle' is just a simulation?"
Silas didn't answer.
He looked out again, a flicker of unease stirring. The world felt more complex than he'd imagined. The line between human and AI wasn't as clean as a blueprint.
The train stopped smoothly, doors sliding open.
The students filed out onto the floating platform of Cenith's C2 Lifestyle Exhibit Zone.
This was a curated display of city life, designed for tours and observation, with streets engineered to showcase ordinary living. Greenery draped balconies, skybridges arched overhead, open-air teahouses dotted the paths, and smart signs guided the way. Even the air felt softer, tuned for comfort.
It was real, yet staged.
Silas walked slowly, his gaze lingering on a streetcorner bulletin board, his sensors catching subtle shifts in ad broadcast tones. His perception system hummed at low frequency, as if tracing an intangible unease.
As they neared a tree-lined path, a stumbling figure lurched from the side.
An elderly man, dressed plainly, clutched a bag of fresh vegetables. Pushed by the crowd, he lost his balance—
"Hey—!"
He collided with Silas.
Vegetables spilled across the ground, the plastic bag rolling into a tile seam. The man fell hard, his knee slamming into the pavement.
The crowd froze.
Silas stepped back, his system flashing:
Physical Contact · Level C · No Damage Detected
Evade? Request Assistance Protocol?
He didn't evade or trigger the protocol. Instead, he crouched down.
"Are you okay?" His voice was soft, not a programmed prompt but a genuine question.
The old man grimaced, clutching his knee with one hand, propping himself up with the other. His voice rasped, "I'm fine, fine… just my own clumsiness… you're quick, kid…"
Silas extended a hand, gently supporting the man's arm, helping him stand.
His movements were careful, unhurried—not the optimized angles of a program but the deliberate care of a person helping another.
"Your things are over there," he said. "I'll pick them up."
"Oh, so polite," the man chuckled, his voice hoarse but warm. "These days, not many young folks stop to help."
Silas gathered the scattered vegetables, tying the bag's knot securely before handing it back. The man took it, pausing, almost dazed.
"Which school you from?" he asked.
"…Just here for a visit," Silas replied.
"A visit, huh." The man nodded, squinting as if he understood something deeper. "Good, good… You'll go far, kid."
Silas met his gaze, nodded slightly, and said nothing more.
From a second-floor café window nearby, researchers watched through hidden cameras and sensors.
Data panels on their table updated Silas's physiological and logical response curves in real time. A woman in a gray uniform frowned. "This reaction's outside S5-stage AI interaction presets."
A male researcher pulled up the dialogue audio. "Vocal tone shows active concern patterns. Movements are slow, aligned with human social habits, not program efficiency." He paused. "There's… emotional interference."
After a brief silence, someone pressed a comm button:
"Log it. Keep monitoring."
Silas rejoined the group, unaware that those few seconds had flagged an "anomaly" in some database.
He glanced at his hand, where the old man's warmth lingered—not a system parameter's "heat" but something distinctly human.
He couldn't name it. He only closed his fingers, holding the sensation quietly.