The City That Never Blinks

Sketchpad City never slept.

From the top floor of Pen Doe Tower, the whole place looked like a drawing someone hadn't finished yet — streets lined with neon signs, elevated walkways connecting rooftops, and little delivery drones buzzing between buildings like restless bees.

Pen Doe stood at the wide curved window, her dark blue and grey supersuit catching the glow of the city below. Her white muzzle was almost pressed to the glass. Her big dark eyes tracked a tram full of passengers — humans and deer packed together, laughing, scrolling phones, spilling coffee.

"You're staring again," said a voice behind her.

She turned. Her assistant, Blot, a short, round-faced human boy with ink-stained fingers and a tablet in hand, was squinting at her from across the room.

"I'm watching," Pen said. "There's a difference."

Blot raised an eyebrow. "The city's fine, Pen. Nothing's on fire."

She looked back at the tram. "Not yet."

Static in the Air

The tram Pen had been watching stopped moving.

Not slowed down. Not braked. Just — stopped. Dead in the middle of the elevated track, lights out, doors sealed shut.

Then the delivery drones dropped. Every single one, all at once, like someone had switched off the sky.

"Blot." Pen's voice was flat and quiet. "Check the tower systems."

Blot was already at the main console, jabbing the screen. "Nothing's responding. Comms, elevators, the security grid—" The screen flickered and went black. "Everything just died."

Pen pressed her hand to the window. Down below, the entire city block had gone dark. Street signals, storefronts, digital billboards — all blank. People on the sidewalks were stopping, looking up, holding dead phones.

Then the tower shook.

Not an earthquake. Something had hit the roof — something that buzzed and hummed like a massive insect before going silent.

Blot grabbed the edge of the console. "What was that?"

Pen was already moving toward the stairwell door.