The lobby of City Hall was a cavern of marble and echoes. It was cold, the air conditioning set to a temperature that suggested power and efficiency.

Arlis arrived an hour early. His suit was pressed, his shoes shined with a kit he'd bought at a drugstore. He stood near a pillar, watching the other candidates arrive.

They looked like clones. Navy blue suits, expensive watches, haircuts that cost more than Arlis's monthly rent. The air smelled of expensive cologne and fear.

Arlis walked to the sign-in desk. The woman behind the counter looked harried, buried under a stack of files.

"Good morning," Arlis said softly. "You look like you're carrying the weight of the world today."

The woman looked up, startled. Candidates usually barked names at her. Her face softened. "You have no idea, honey. Name?"

"Zimmerman. Arlis."

"Good luck, Mr. Zimmerman," she said, marking his name. Her tone was warm.

A commotion at the entrance drew everyone's attention. The heavy glass doors swung open.

Hailee walked in. She was clinging to Kyler's arm like a trophy. She wasn't a candidate, but she was there to mark her territory. Kyler wore an Armani suit that fit him like a second skin. He looked like a prince.

He scanned the room and locked eyes with Arlis.

"Look," Kyler announced, his voice booming. "The waiter actually showed up."

A ripple of laughter went through the group of candidates. Arlis didn't flinch. He stood perfectly still.

Hailee looked at Arlis. Her eyes flicked over his cheap suit, the slightly frayed cuffs. "Arlis," she said, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper of pity. "Just go home. Don't do this to yourself."

"Hailee," Arlis said, his voice even. "This is a government building, not a sorority mixer. Lower your voice."

Kyler stepped forward, towering over Arlis. "Listen, pal. You know who got me this interview? The Deputy Mayor. Who sent you? The fry cook?"

Arlis looked Kyler in the eye. He didn't back down. He leaned in slightly.

"If I were you, Kyler, I wouldn't be shouting about nepotism in the lobby," Arlis said quietly. He nodded toward the far wall. "See those guys with the cameras? That's the Capital Gazette investigative team. They're looking for a quote on the corruption scandal."

Kyler's head whipped around. Sure enough, three men with press badges were standing near the elevators, talking to a security guard.

Kyler's face went pale. The color drained from his cheeks so fast it looked like a magic trick. He clamped his mouth shut, taking a half-step back.

Hailee looked confused. "Kyler? What's wrong?"

"Shut up," Kyler hissed at her.

Arlis didn't smile. He just turned his back on them and walked toward the elevators. The doors opened, and he stepped inside. As the doors slid shut, he saw Kyler standing there, sweating in his Armani suit.

Upstairs, the waiting room was silent. Arlis found a seat in the corner. Next to him sat a young man who was vibrating with nerves. Candidate 36.

"I'm going to throw up," the boy whispered.

"Breathe," Arlis said without opening his eyes. "They don't want robots. They want problem solvers."

The boy looked at him, grateful.

The door opened. A hush fell over the room. Commissioner Reynolds walked in. He was a large man, imposing, with a face carved from granite. He walked through the room, inspecting the candidates like livestock.

Everyone stood up, straightening ties. Arlis stood slowly. His eyes went straight to the floor.

Reynolds' shoes. Black oxfords. But along the sole, a faint rim of reddish-brown mud.

Red clay, Arlis thought. The East District construction site. He was there this morning.

Arlis looked up. Reynolds caught his eye. For a second, there was a spark of curiosity in the Commissioner's gaze. Then he turned and marched into the interview room.

The game was on.

The tension in the waiting room was palpable, a physical pressure that made it hard to breathe. An administrative assistant walked in carrying a clear plastic box.

"We will now draw for interview order," she announced.

The candidates lined up. One by one, they dipped their hands in.

"Number Twelve!" one guy cheered.

"Number Eight," another groaned.

Kyler walked up, his confidence restored. He reached in and pulled out a slip of paper. He unfolded it and grinned.

"Number Five," he announced loudly. "Prime time."

He smirked at Arlis. "Top of the morning. While the judges are fresh."

Arlis stepped up. The box was nearly empty. He reached deep into the corner and pulled out a crumpled slip.

35.

A murmur of sympathy went through the room. Candidate 36, who had pulled 34, looked like he was about to faint. "It's the death slot," he whimpered. "4:30 PM. They'll be exhausted. They'll hate us."

Kyler laughed as he walked past Arlis. "Even God hates you, Zimmerman. Have fun talking to a wall. They'll be asleep by the time you get in."

Arlis sat down. He looked at the number. 35.

He didn't feel despair. He felt a thrill of victory.

He knew something Kyler didn't. He knew Commissioner Reynolds was diabetic. He knew that every day at 4:00 PM, Reynolds' blood sugar crashed, making him irritable and nasty. But at 4:15 PM, his assistant would bring him a dark chocolate bar and a coffee.

By 4:30 PM, the sugar would hit. The caffeine would kick in. Reynolds would be awake, energized, and-crucially-bored out of his mind by thirty-four cookie-cutter candidates reciting the same answers.

He would be desperate for something different.

Arlis pulled a book from his bag. Municipal Infrastructure Maintenance: A Guide. He opened it and began to read.

Hours dragged by. Candidates went in pale and came out sweating. Kyler emerged at 11:00 AM, looking triumphant. "Crushed it," he told Hailee, who was waiting in the hall. "They loved me."

Arlis ignored them. At lunch, he ate half a protein bar. He needed to stay sharp, not sluggish. A heavy meal would be a mistake.

The afternoon wore on. The sun shifted across the floor. The room emptied. Finally, it was just Arlis and the shaking boy next to him.

Candidate 34 went in. Ten minutes later, he came out looking like he'd been slapped.

"Number 35. Arlis Zimmerman," the assistant called.

Arlis closed his book. He stood up. He buttoned his cheap jacket. He didn't rush. He took a deep breath, visualizing the layout of the room.

He walked to the heavy oak door. He pushed it open.

The blast of air conditioning hit him. The smell of fresh coffee was strong.

Five commissioners sat behind a long table. They looked wrecked. Ties loosened, eyes glazed.

But in the center, Reynolds was wiping chocolate from the corner of his mouth. He was taking a sip from a steaming mug.

Perfect timing.

Arlis didn't bow. He didn't rush to the chair. He stood by it, waiting for Reynolds to swallow.

Reynolds looked up, surprised by the pause. He saw a young man standing perfectly still, waiting for permission.

"Sit down, Mr. Zimmerman," Reynolds grunted.

Arlis sat. He kept his back straight, not touching the backrest. He folded his hands on the table.

Reynolds flipped open a file. He sighed. "You were twelfth on the exam. You're a reserve. Tell me, Mr. Zimmerman, why should we waste these last ten minutes on you?"

It was a slap in the face. A test.

Arlis didn't flinch. He looked Reynolds in the eye.

The silence in the room stretched tight as a rubber band. The other commissioners looked at their watches, ready to go home.

Arlis smiled. It wasn't an arrogant smile. It was the smile of a mechanic looking at an engine he knew how to fix.

"Commissioner," Arlis said, his voice calm and deep. "These ten minutes aren't a waste. They are an ROI assessment."

Reynolds' eyebrows shot up. ROI. Return on Investment. Business language. Not bureaucrat language.

"The written exam measures memory of the past," Arlis continued. "This interview is about executing the future."

He leaned forward slightly. "And as for why me? Because I'm the only person in this room who noticed the red clay on your shoes."

Reynolds froze. He looked down at his feet. The reddish mud was unmistakable against the black leather.

"That's East District clay," Arlis said. "Specifically, the soil composition found at the stalled revitalization project on 9th Avenue. Which tells me you were there this morning, inspecting the drainage failure."

The air in the room changed instantly. The boredom vanished. Commissioner Lee, a stern woman on the left, sat up straight.

Reynolds looked at Arlis with narrowed eyes. "Continue."

"I've reviewed the initial plans for that sector," Arlis said, a carefully constructed half-truth. "There were concerns raised even then about potential drainage issues during heavy rainfall. The current system is based on outdated weather models. If you don't get ahead of it before the fall rains, the basement of the new library will flood. I remember the damage from the big storm in '02; this would be worse."

Commissioner Lee grabbed her pen. She wrote something down, underlining it twice.

Reynolds leaned back, crossing his arms. "Impressive parlor trick. But let's talk ethics. Scenario: Your superior orders you to implement a policy you know is flawed. What do you do?"

It was the trap question. Say "I refuse," you're insubordinate. Say "I do it," you're a mindless drone.

Arlis didn't hesitate. "I execute the order," he said.

Reynolds frowned.

"But," Arlis added, "while executing, I collect data. If the data proves the policy is working, I learn. If the data proves I'm right and the policy is failing, I bring that data to my superior with a fully formed correction plan. I don't bring problems, Commissioner. I bring solutions backed by evidence."

Reynolds' mouth twitched. It was almost a smile.

For the next fifteen minutes, Arlis was a machine. He didn't just answer questions; he wove a narrative. When Commissioner Vance asked about education, Arlis referenced Vance's own 1998 bill on school funding. When asked about technology, he painted a picture of a digital City Hall that wouldn't exist for another decade.

"Imagine a citizen paying their taxes from their phone," Arlis said. "Imagine permits approved in hours, not weeks."

The commissioners were leaning in now. They were listening.

The assistant opened the door. "Time," she whispered.

Reynolds waved a hand without looking at her. "Let him finish."

Arlis spoke for another two minutes. He concluded with a simple statement. "I'm not here for the stipend. I'm here because this city is sleeping, and I want to help wake it up."

Silence.

Reynolds tapped his pen on the table. Tap. Tap. Tap.

"Mr. Zimmerman," Reynolds said gruffly. "You're twenty-two?"

Arlis nodded. "On paper."

"You don't talk like a twenty-two-year-old."

"My age is twenty-two," Arlis said softly. "My ambition has been waiting a lifetime."

"Thank you, Mr. Zimmerman," Reynolds said.

Arlis stood up. He nodded to the panel and walked out. His legs felt like jelly, but he kept his stride steady until the heavy door clicked shut behind him.