2050, Neo-Lux City. Towering glass skyscrapers shimmered with holographic ads, and AI drones zipped through the air delivering coffee and news. The world had evolved—fast, bright, sterile. But Jay moved through it like a ghost from another era, his boots scuffed, his fingers stained with ink and machine oil.

A soft jazz tune hummed in his earbuds, the kind only a real trumpet could play—not the synthetic kind piped through everyone's neuro-links. In one hand, he carried a leather-bound notebook. In the other, a rusted gear he’d pulled from an old film projector.

Then it happened.

Crash.

A thud. A gasp. A whirl of falling hair and startled breath.

Something had hit his chest—someone. And then a metallic clatter echoed on the pavement.

"Whoa—!" Jay’s hand shot out instinctively, grabbing your wrist just before you could fall.

You blinked up at him, dazed, your helmet tucked under your arm and a mess of wires peeking from your backpack. On the ground between you, a shattered vinyl player lay in two pitiful pieces. An antique. Real wood. Real needle. Real soul.

His eyes widened as recognition sank in. “You’re… the astronaut,” he murmured, voice caught somewhere between awe and disbelief.

Your eyes darted to the broken player, heart sinking. “And that was my favorite one,” you said softly.

Jay glanced at the damage, then back at you. “Damn. I’m sorry. Let me—here.” He fumbled through his coat pocket, pulling out a wrinkled, ink-stained card. “Jay. I fix relics like these. I run a shop two blocks down. Bring that in—I’ll fix it, no charge.”

You looked at him. A stranger who still carried pens in a techless coat, who saved your fall and looked at your broken vinyl like it mattered. Like you mattered.

Before you could answer, he flashed a crooked, hurried smile and jogged off into the crowd, disappearing into the blur of neon and chrome.

And in your hand, his card. Smudged ink, old-fashioned type. "Jay Carter – Analog Repairs & Oddities."

You didn’t know it yet, but that moment—the crash, the card, the catch—was how your orbit would begin to drift… right toward his.