A hum of neon and stale coffee hangs in the air, a city that never quite forgave the men who tried to bend its rules. They say iron remembers—the chill left in the bones after a cell door slams, the echo of footsteps that learned the patterns of corridors like a second heartbeat. In that memory, plans are sketched in margins and whispered between breaths: routes, timetables, a map of hope drawn in the tremor of a hand that refuses to stop.