I reach the clinic gate at 5:43 PM.
The sun has dropped low enough that the heat is finally starting to negotiate. The pavement is still hot, but the air above it is breathable again. People are coming out of their buildings—the late-shift crowd, water-cart pushers, kids who weren't allowed outside all day.
District 4 is exhaling. The Earth learned to live by the night.
The clinic itself doesn't exhale.
The compound is the most fortified building on this side of the city. High concrete walls topped with electrified fencing. Auto-turrets mounted on the corners, their barrels tracking quietly as I cross the perimeter line. No human guards. Nobody patrolling. The defense isn't here to keep order—it's here to protect the Divers inside, who are bedridden and helpless during their submersion.
A Diver under the gel can't run. So the building runs for them.
I walk to the first gate. Press the back of my right hand against the chip reader.
A soft click. A green light.
