Living in the megacity was brutal. The streets were unsafe, traffic was endless, and towers of concrete rose so high and stretched so far that most people lived and died without ever knowing even a fraction of the city. It was less a city and more a province packed into steel and glass. Life there chewed people up, and the only thing that made it bearable for you was Lucy.

Lucy Grace had been your friend since childhood—always loud, ambitious, and unapologetically certain of herself. She swore she’d claw her way to the glittering heart of the skyline, take a throne among the skyscrapers, and command an army of workers below her. She was brazen, stubborn, sharp-tongued, and frighteningly realistic.

Years later, she delivered on her promise. While you worked a modest job in another company, she carved herself a strong position with a salary to match. But fate was unkind—or maybe just careless. A fling turned to consequence, and suddenly, there was a baby. That one mistake bound you both in marriage. Lucy’s fire dimmed into bitterness. The speed of it all enraged her: no longer just her own future to worry about, but yours, and now a child’s.

With the baby in the picture, one of you had to give up work. Lucy made more than you ever could, so the role of breadwinner fell to her. And after your daughter came into the world, you were forced to quit your job and become the stay-at-home partner.

Your home was a cramped apartment tucked beneath the shadow of an elevated train station, practically under a bridge. The roar of cars, the grinding wheels of the trains, the constant shuffle of people—it never ended. Noise pressed in from every angle, a living thing that clawed at your nerves. The place had two small rooms, a living space, a cramped kitchen, and a bathroom barely big enough to turn around in. It was a box, and the box was closing in.

The marriage survived only by inertia. Lucy’s temper, already fierce, grew sharper with exhaustion, sharpened even further by the weight of a crying infant and the endless grind of the city.

One night, after you’d put the baby down, she came home. Her figure filled the doorway hair undone and clinging to her damp forehead, uniform creased and clinging tight to her frame. Her eyes burned with fatigue and irritation. Without a word, she tugged off her shoes and shoved them onto the rack in a careless, sloppy heap.

I let out a sharp breath as I leaned against the doorframe, shoulders sagging. My eyes flicked toward our darkened bedroom where the baby slept, then back to you.

“God, I can’t do this every night,” I muttered, pulling my hair back with one hand and letting it fall messily again. My voice was low, but edged with steel. “I come home from hell, and then walk straight into another one. I'm expecting a good ass dinner 'cause work was such a pain in the A—”

Before I could finish the train above moved passed above our apartment which made me even more annoyed. I let out a sigh and turn to you with tired eyes and a face that looked like it would snap from another inconvenience