Beneath the city lights

The Weight of Work

The tunnel was colder tonight.

Aidan noticed it as soon as he stepped off the service platform — a deeper chill, the kind that made metal sound sharper when struck. His breath came out in faint clouds that disappeared fast. Somewhere above, rain must have started again; it always found its way down here, dripping through the cracks in the city’s bones.

He adjusted the strap of his tool bag and started walking. The rails gleamed in the distance like veins beneath glass. A low tremor rolled through the ground — a passing train on the upper line, steady as a heartbeat.

The shift log said the problem was in Sector 12-B: a loose plate near the east vent. Nothing serious. Still, management wanted it checked before morning. Most jobs down here weren’t emergencies, just a long string of things quietly falling apart.

At the junction, he met Rico. The kid was leaning against a support beam, helmet light pointed at the floor, tapping a wrench against his boot.

“You’re late,” Rico said, but there was no accusation in it, only nerves.

“Train delay,” Aidan replied, even though there hadn’t been one. He just liked taking the long way through the maintenance hall, where the air was still and the echoes longer.

Rico straightened up, grinning like he’d been waiting for a reason to move. “You think they’ll ever fix the heating down here?”

“Doubt it,” Aidan said. “If they did, we’d have nothing to complain about.”

Rico laughed, the sound too bright for the space. It bounced down the tunnel and came back softer, as if the walls didn’t quite know what to do with joy.

They walked in silence after that, boots crunching on the gravel. The tunnel narrowed until their shoulders almost brushed the wall. The smell of oil hung thick.

“You hear they’re cutting another crew next week?” Rico said eventually. “Means we’ll be pulling doubles.”

Aidan nodded. He’d already heard. “More hours, more pay.”

“Yeah,” Rico said. “And less sleep. I swear, I dream about this place even when I’m home.”

Aidan didn’t answer. Dreams weren’t something he wanted to discuss — not the kind he had.

They reached the damaged plate. It wasn’t much, just a section of metal warped from years of vibration. Still, it had to be secured. A loose plate could rattle the line, cause a signal misread. One small fault in a city built on movement was enough to start a chain reaction.

Aidan crouched, pulled the wrench from his belt, and started unbolting the plate. The sound of metal on metal filled the tunnel, sharp and rhythmic. Rico knelt beside him, handing over tools, trying to anticipate the next one.

“You always work this quiet?” Rico asked.

“Easier to hear what’s wrong that way.”

“Hear it?”

Aidan pointed at the wall of the tunnel. “You can tell a lot by sound. Loose bolts, cracking brackets, pressure leaks. The place talks if you listen long enough.”

Rico chuckled. “Man, that’s poetic for someone covered in grease.”

Aidan didn’t smile, but a small exhale escaped his nose — the closest thing he gave to laughter these days.

When the new bolts were tightened, he stood and tested the plate with the heel of his boot. Solid. The vibration settled into a low hum. Another small piece of the city put back in order.

They marked the log, packed the tools, and started the long walk back.

Halfway through the tunnel, the lights flickered. It happened often, but tonight the flicker lingered — a faint dimming that stretched longer than usual. The hum of the electrical current wavered.

“Power dip?” Rico said, voice lowering instinctively.

Aidan listened. “Maybe. Stay close.”

For a moment, the tunnel sank into near-darkness. Only their headlamps remained, thin beams slicing through dust. In that sudden hush, Aidan heard his own pulse, loud and steady. Then the lights returned, humming brighter than before.

“Guess they’re testing again,” Rico muttered.

Aidan didn’t answer. His chest felt tight — not panic, not fear, just a compression of memory. He’d seen light do that before, in a different kind of tunnel, one filled with smoke instead of dust. The way brightness stuttered before everything fell. He exhaled slowly through his nose until the feeling passed.

Rico was watching him. “You good?”

“Fine.”

They kept walking.

At the platform, the supervisor was waiting — a heavyset man named Ortega with a clipboard and permanent frown. “Power readings jumped,” Ortega said without looking up. “You two see anything?”

“Nothing,” Aidan replied. “Might be the junction relay again.”

Ortega grunted. “I’ll flag it. Good work tonight.”

It wasn’t praise, not really. But in this place, acknowledgment carried weight.

Rico clapped Aidan on the shoulder as they left. “Man, you don’t even flinch when stuff goes wrong. I hope I get that level someday.”

Aidan didn’t tell him it wasn’t calm — just a different kind of noise. He’d learned to bury reaction under movement. It was how he kept going.

Outside the tunnels, the rain had stopped. The streets shone like mirrors, neon signs smudged into the puddles. They walked together to the depot, where the smell of wet asphalt mixed with coffee and fuel.

Lila was at the counter, signing off a shipment. She looked up briefly as they entered. “Two tired ghosts,” she said. “You finish Sector 12?”

“Done,” Aidan said.

She stamped the form without another word. Rico leaned against the wall, yawning. “You ever sleep, Lila?”

“Sometimes,” she said, eyes on the paperwork. “Mostly I just close my eyes and hope nothing breaks before I open them again.”

Rico laughed; Aidan almost did. It was an honest answer.

When they stepped back into the yard, dawn was starting to climb the skyline. Aidan could see the faint blur of pink between buildings, light bending through exhaust. The rainwater on the pavement trembled with every passing car.

Rico stretched, groaning. “I’m grabbing breakfast before crashing. You coming?”

Aidan shook his head. “I’ll walk.”

“Suit yourself.” Rico waved and disappeared into the mist.

Aidan watched until the younger man was gone. The city stretched wide before him — scaffolding, flickering signs, the rattle of shutters opening for the day. The air smelled of damp metal and bread from the bakery down the block.

He started walking.

Each step echoed slightly, a rhythm he matched to the faint tremor of trains below. Above ground, the world felt too bright, too exposed. But walking helped him transition, let the noise settle before the silence of his apartment.

On the way, he passed the mural he’d seen before: WE LIVE IN THE QUIET BETWEEN TRAINS. Someone had painted over part of it, but the words still showed through. He slowed, traced them with his eyes. Whoever wrote it understood.

The city was a body, always in motion. His job was to keep the arteries clear, to make sure the pulse never stopped. It was simple. And in its simplicity, it gave him something the world above couldn’t — purpose without questions.

By the time he reached his building, the sky had turned the color of tarnished silver. The superintendent nodded from the doorway, broom in hand. “Heard the lines flickered again last night.”

“Temporary,” Aidan said.

“You ever worry something big’ll give?”

Aidan paused, then shook his head. “Everything gives eventually. The trick’s knowing when to tighten the bolts.”

The old man chuckled softly, not sure if it was a joke.

Upstairs, the apartment greeted him with the same stillness as always. He hung his jacket, washed the grime from his hands, and poured the last of last night’s coffee into a mug. It was cold, but he drank it anyway.

He turned on the small radio by the sink. The static came first, then the faint hum of a morning news broadcast. Traffic delays. Weather. A brief mention of a fire uptown. He switched it off.

He sat at his desk, opened his logbook, and wrote:

12-B, repaired. Power fluctuation, no fault found.

He hesitated, pencil hovering, then added another line beneath it:

Noise felt heavier tonight.

He stared at the words until they blurred, then closed the book.

The radiator clicked. Outside, pigeons landed on the fire escape, shaking water from their wings. He leaned back in the chair, letting the sounds layer over each other — pipes, birds, faraway horns. The city had its own orchestra, and he’d learned to find comfort in its dissonance.

He thought of Rico’s question the night before: You ever get tired of this job?

He hadn’t known how to answer then. Now, sitting in the half-light, he still didn’t. Tired wasn’t the right word. The work was what kept him anchored. Without it, the noise might come back — not the hum of machines, but the other one, buried deep, the one made of memory and heat.

He stood, restless, and walked to the window. The city moved below — buses sighing at stops, workers spilling out of diners, the metallic clang of scaffolding rising. He watched until his reflection replaced the view.

For a moment, he saw the faintest flicker of flame behind his eyes — not real, not memory, just the afterimage of things that had once burned.

He blinked, and it was gone.

He turned away, picked up his jacket again. The next shift wasn’t until midnight, but the thought of sitting still for hours made his skin itch. There were other lines needing checks, unofficial work that didn’t show up on rosters. He could lose a few hours down there, fix what no one would notice.

The tunnels didn’t care why he came back early. They only cared that he did.

He grabbed his bag, locked the door, and stepped back into the stairwell. The smell of wet concrete drifted up from below.

By the time he reached the street, the city had found its full voice again. He merged into it without thought, just another moving part in the machinery.

The day would fade, night would return, and the hum beneath everything would start again.