The commercial gate the next morning was busy.
Leo joined the queue without the VIP credentials that had previously moved him through without delay. The departure hall hummed with the low-grade chaos of public transit: merchants arguing about cargo fees, students shouldering heavy packs, minor officials clutching document tubes, and travelers of every race and purpose shuffling forward in the slow, resigned rhythm of people who had done this many times and would do it many more. He paid the standard fare, coins clinking into the attendant's tray, and stepped onto the platform.
The transition on the other side carried the same brief warmth, but this time it opened into noise and movement rather than a private chamber. A standard arrival platform. The air smelled of stone dust and too many bodies passing through the same space. Voices bounced off the high ceiling in layered echoes.
