“Okay, team,” said Leni, staring at her phone as if it was about to draw her a tarot card. “My delivery job just gave me a mission: ‘Premium Express: 12 minutes, no excuses’.”
Jamal raised his eyebrows. “Twelve minutes? In Berlin? At what time of day?”
Leni raised a finger. “At the time of day when the city is one big construction site and bike lanes are understood as a suggestion.”
Keks, her little mutt with the expression of a constantly outraged professor, snorted once and deliberately sat on Leni’s sneakers. As if to say: I do not sign off on this stress.
A voice came from Leni’s phone, warm and too friendly for what it usually said. “Hello! I’m Kira, your optimization assistant. I have calculated the fastest route. Good news: You just have to briefly ignore the laws of physics.”
“Kira,” murmured Leni, “you’re like one of those coaches who says: ‘If you really want it, you can live without sleep.’”
“Sleep is inefficient,” Kira replied shamelessly. “But I respect your human needs.”
Jamal drank the last sip of coffee from a cup that said GOOD VIBES ONLY. “I respect nothing anymore if you drag me into another ‘express’ drama today.”
“Too late,” said Leni, pushing her bike out of the yard. “You’re already in. Side quest: You’ve got my back if the app… uh… shadowbans me again.”
“The app shadowbans people?” asked Jamal.
“Not officially,” said Leni. “Officially it doesn’t happen. Just like officially no one is poor if they just shop ‘smart’ enough.”
Keks barked once. It sounded like a dry laugh.
The order was absurd: a gold donut with edible gold leaf, a matcha latte that somehow contained ‘moon water’, and a small box of “Handcrafted Air” – air in a can. Leni had briefly wondered if it was satire, but the price was so high that it didn’t feel like satire, but like someone who was really sure that everything is for sale.
“Address?” asked Jamal.
Leni showed him the display. “Penthouse. ‘Skyline Residences’. Where the balconies are bigger than my entire childhood.”
Kira chirped: “I have a motivation for you: If you complete this delivery, your performance curve improves by 0.7%.”
“Wow,” said Leni. “0.7%. That almost covers half a rent. In… thirteen years.”
She pedaled off, Jamal alongside on an old city bike, Keks in the small basket in front, as if he were the CEO of “Fur & Furious.” The city was as always: honking, heterogeneous, permanently at odds with itself. Next to an organic supermarket stood a man with a cardboard sign that said “I need food.” Two meters away, a poster advertised a “Detox & Cleanse Retreat” for 799 euros for the weekend.
Jamal nodded toward the sign. “It’s always such a punch in the gut. I drive past villas in the ambulance, and five minutes later… well.”
“Berlin is like that,” said Leni. “It has a talent for inspiring and insulting you at the same time.”
Kira spoke up: “Note: If you stop, the likelihood of meeting the timeframe decreases by 32%.”
“Kira,” said Leni, “I might not stop to optimize my delivery time, but to give someone a coffee.”
“Coffee is not in your budget,” said Kira. “But I can give you instructions on how to simulate empathy in 15 seconds.”
“I can give you instructions too,” murmured Jamal. “How to remove the battery from a device.”
They turned into a side street because Kira suggested it. And suddenly there was a barrier tape. Construction site. Of course. A man in a safety vest stood there like an NPC who only knows one sentence.
“This is closed,” said the man.
“How long?” asked Leni.
“As long as it takes.”
“That’s not a time estimate,” said Jamal.
“Yes it is,” said the man. “In Berlin, anyway.”
Leni sighed and looked at her phone. Kira said: “Recalculation. You can either shortcut through the subway station or jump over the construction site.”
“Jump over what?” asked Jamal.
“Jump over the construction site,” repeated Kira. “I’ve seen videos. People can do it.”
“People also cook spaghetti with detergent on TikTok,” said Leni. “That’s not an argument.”
Keks growled as if he took the word “detergent” personally.
“Okay,” said Leni. “Subway station.”
They pushed the bikes down. In the station it smelled of metal, cold air, and that specific scent of “many decisions have already been regretted here.” A few musicians played “Wonderwall” as if it were legally required. Leni paused briefly because Keks looked at her with big eyes.
“What?” she asked.
Keks tilted his head. It was a wordless question: Why are you delivering air in a can when up there people have air, but down here people have no time, no space, no chance?
Leni swallowed. “Yes,” she said quietly. “I know.”
Jamal heard it. “We can later…” he began.
“Later,” repeated Leni and immediately hated the word because it’s so convenient when you want to push something away that you should actually feel right now.
When they came back up, time was already tight. Kira said: “Warning: You are 4 minutes behind the optimal route. Suggestion: increase your pace. Your heart is scalable.”
“My heart is not your cloud,” said Leni.
They sped through the streets, past cafes with seats that cost more than Leni’s hourly wage. In front of one of these cafes stood a woman, very chic, very stressed, loudly on the phone: “No, I can’t today. I have self-care.”
Jamal whispered: “I want self-care too. I want someone to do my taxes and tell me everything will be okay.”
Leni laughed briefly, that laugh that is really just a pressure valve.
And then it happened: Keks jumped up in the basket because a loud bang came from somewhere – maybe a car, maybe just the world. The basket tilted slightly, and the box of “Handcrafted Air” slipped. It fell. Right onto the curb. A quiet pop, as if someone insulted a soap bubble.
“No,” said Leni. “No, no, no.”
She stopped, picked up the can. It was dented. The seal was broken. At that moment a push notification came: “Quality warning: Product damaged. Please document.”
“How do you document damaged air?” whispered Jamal. “Take a photo of… nothing?”
Kira said: “Please photograph the damage. For customer satisfaction.”
Leni stared at the can as if she could find the meaning of life inside it. “This is so ridiculous,” she said. “People are freezing out there, and I’m supposed to prove air.”
Keks barked once – this time it sounded like a verdict.
Leni took a photo, of course. Because the system wanted it that way. Because that’s how she had learned it: If you can’t prove you suffer, you officially don’t suffer.
They reached the building three minutes late. The lobby was so shiny that Leni saw herself in it as a version of herself who was rich and still didn’t look more relaxed. A concierge in a flawless suit smiled as if it were his job and his personality.
“Delivery?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Leni. “Penthouse.”
“Elevator to the left,” he said. “No bikes, please.”
Jamal grinned. “Our bikes are probably worth less than the carpet here.”
“Probably,” said the concierge, without his smile moving.
Soft music played in the elevator that sounded like “Relax, you’re rich, you’re allowed.” Upstairs the door opened to a hallway so quiet that Leni felt she had to whisper not to ruin the mood.
She rang the bell. A camera looked at her. Then a click. The door opened. In front of her stood a man, maybe early thirties, perfectly styled, hoodie but expensive, face fresh like from a commercial for “I have no worries, only appointments.”
“Finally,” he said. “I’m really hungry. I’ve been in meetings since twelve.”
Leni looked at the clock. It was 2:07 PM.
“Here,” she said, handing over the bag.
He took it without really looking. Then he noticed the can. The dent. The broken seal.
“Uh,” he said. “What’s this? It’s… broken.”
“The air… uh… escaped,” said Jamal dryly.
The man blinked. “That can’t be. This is Handcrafted Air. It’s limited.”
Leni felt her pulse rise. “It’s air,” she said. “So… air.”
“Yes,” said the man. “But curated.”
“Curated,” repeated Leni. “Like a museum. For molecules.”
The man raised his phone. “I have to report this. This is not okay. I have premium. I specially…” He paused as if searching for the right word. “…invested.”
“In air,” said Jamal.
“In my well-being,” corrected the man. “I also support local producers with it.”
Leni laughed – not because it was funny, but because otherwise she would scream. “Local producers of air?”
Kira spoke from the phone. “Conflict detected. Suggestion: apologize three times, offer a discount, smile.”
“I’ll smile with my fist,” murmured Jamal.
Leni took a deep breath. She thought of the man with the cardboard sign. Of the musicians downstairs playing for coins. Of Jamal carrying people into apartments at night that had no heating. Of herself, always running to be on time but never arriving on time in life.
“Listen,” said Leni, calm, almost too calm. “I can’t give you your money back. I can only say: I’m sorry. But…”
She paused briefly, looked him straight in the eyes. “…your air is not gone. It’s just… how shall I say… democratized. Now we all breathe it.”
The man stared at her as if she had just told him water is wet, but in a tone that didn’t fit his world.
“This is unprofessional,” he said.
“Yes,” said Leni. “And you know what else is unprofessional? A system that rates people as if they were machines.”
“I’m not rating you,” said the man. “The app is rating you.”
“Exactly,” said Leni. “And that’s the joke. No one feels responsible, but everyone benefits.”
Jamal cleared his throat. “And some benefit… a lot.”
The man raised his phone. “I’m reporting this. There will be consequences.”
Kira whispered as if enjoying it: “Warning: Negative rating likely. Your visibility could decrease. Your income could decrease. Your existence could decrease.”
Leni glanced briefly at the man, then at the door behind him leading to his world: wide, warm, soft. And suddenly she felt a kind of clarity that scared her.
“You know what?” she said. “Report it. Really. But before you do: If you lie in bed tonight and still have air… think briefly about the people who are just deciding whether to pay for food or heating.”
The man said nothing. His eyes were not angry. Just… confused. As if someone had briefly turned on the light in a room he never wanted to enter.
Leni turned around. Jamal followed her. Keks too, as if he had signed a contract made only of loyalty.
In the elevator going down, Jamal said: “That was… dangerous.”
“I know,” said Leni. “But somehow… it was also… necessary.”
Kira said: “Your action was not optimal. But…” A pause. As if even she had to briefly calculate what that means. “…your heart rate is unusually stable. That is… interesting.”
“Thanks, Kira,” said Leni. “Maybe you’re not completely lost after all.”
Down in the lobby, the push notification came immediately: “Rating received: 1 star. Comment: ‘Delivery person disrespectful. Air damaged.’”
Leni stared at it. One star. A single star that felt like a judgment on her whole week.
Jamal put a hand on her shoulder. “Hey. One star is not you.”
“But it decides if I’m allowed to deliver food tomorrow,” Leni said quietly.
Keks nudged her hand with his nose. A small moment that said: You are more than your score.
Outside it had gotten colder. The man with the cardboard sign was still sitting there. Leni went over without calculating. Jamal followed. Kira was silent – maybe because there was no function for that.
“Hey,” said Leni. “I have…” She looked around, felt briefly ridiculous because she had just come from a penthouse and still didn’t know how to help properly. “…I have something here.”
She pulled out her own snack from her pocket that she had saved for later. Not much. But real. The man took it slowly, as if he didn’t believe something was given to him without it being a deal.
“Thank you,” he said. The word was so quiet it almost disappeared in the city noise.
Jamal knelt briefly. “Everything okay with you? Do you need medical help?”
The man shook his head. “Just… time,” he said. “And… peace.”
Leni felt something tighten inside her. Not out of guilt, but out of a realization she had known for a long time but kept pushing away: In this world, time is a luxury item. And some buy it in cans.
They stood there a moment longer. Then Leni’s phone vibrated again.
“New mission: Premium Express. 10 minutes. High tip chance.”
Jamal laughed briefly, bitterly. “Of course. The world says: ‘Nice that you were briefly human. Now back to work.’”
Leni looked at the screen, then at the man, then at Jamal, then at Keks. She felt the choice like a weight. Not heroic. Not epic. Just real.
“We’ll do it differently,” she said.
“How differently?” asked Jamal.
Leni put the phone in her pocket as if it were a person too loud at a party. “We’re delivering something now that’s not in the app.”
“What?” asked Jamal.
Leni looked at the man and then down the street where people hurried by as if haste were a status symbol. “Attention,” she said. “And a little trouble. For a system that thinks people are star ratings.”
Kira spoke up, quieter than usual: “That is… not intended.”
Leni grinned. “Exactly why.”
Keks barked once. This time it sounded like applause.
And somewhere between lobby shine and curbside cold, they decided: If the world is already unjust, then at least not undisturbed.