The traffic doesn’t seem to give off any fumes and the air is clear. Maybe it’s because everything hovers, even the red Routemaster buses. A gleaming train of egg-shaped pods moves past, linked together without any sign of a coupling mechanism, as if they’re magnetised. As I watch, one veers off, breaking away from the train, finding its own path. Each pod is seamless glass—some milky-opaque, others transparent, revealing passengers inside reading screens, dozing, watching the world go by. I wonder: Do any of them know about the seven worlds, the multiverse, Pathfinders—with pistols and fighting sticks and knives—passing under their noses? Do they know theirs is not the real world, that it’s a replica, an image in a cosmic mirror? How could they? They must be just as oblivious as me. As I was.

And then I realise I’m being an idiot.

This is their world, not mine.

To them, this is the real world. To them, Lūna is home.

“Hey, watch it!” someone barks, barging past me.

I step aside and watch the steady stream of pedestrians. The city is bustling, alive, packed with millions of souls, all caught up in their own lives. A young woman taking a dog for a walk. A man laden with shopping bags. A businesswoman in a suit. Ordinary people doing ordinary everyday things. And yet…many of them sail over the pavement in boots that ride on cushions of air. But that’s not the real surprise. It’s the lack of mobile phones. It takes me a while, but after bumping into about six people, I work it out, spot the little black chips on the side of their faces projecting a needle of blue light into a vague image in front of them. They’re communicating with this projected image—like a screen, but in the air—watching the news or speaking to their family, their friends.

I think about Bea and a lump starts to form in my throat.

Vidhan catches me staring. “Blows your mind, right?”

“Feels like I’ve landed in the future,” I say, smothering the hurt. I try to keep my voice even, neutral, to hide my anxiety. But it doesn’t work.

Vidhan gives me a sidelong look. “You’ll find her,” he says. “You will. You got me and you got Kuji and Malik. And that ain’t nothin. I mean Malik’s braver’n anyone I ever met. Sure, he’s a hothead. But he’s our hothead.”

I look across the road. Malik walks straight-backed, eyes narrow and steely. He glances left and right, then ahead again—full of purpose, like he’s finding a way out of a maze.

I turn to Vidhan. “Malik and you must have a theory, right? About why Bea was taken?”

Vidhan steals a look at Malik. “Maybe.”

“So tell me.”