The assessment hall in Anchor-7 smelled of machine oil and the faint ozone of active scanners.
Rows of benches faced the profiling stations, where citizens stepped one by one into the measurement rings. Most kept their eyes down. A few muttered to neighbors about the new rotation quotas.
The veteran logistics supervisor—tall, gray at the temples, the same man who had once rerouted a freight train with a half-smile—waited his turn without fidgeting.
When the technician called his number he walked forward, stripped the sleeve of his coveralls, and let the sensors close around his arm.
The readout scrolled. Hybrid-leaning. Not pure anchor. Not pure velocity. The supervisor stared at the numbers for three full seconds. Then the technician read the assignment: thirty-day rotation into a velocity fabrication crew on the eastern edge of the district.
