In a world timed to microseconds, where traffic lights and thought-feeds pulse in perfect sync, she has cultivated the extravagant habit of wasting time. Standing still in the alley, she draws on the pipe like someone taking notes. Every slow exhale is a refusal of velocity. Around her, delivery drones slice through the fog and elevator shafts scream silently with compressed urgency; in contrast, her smoke drifts with the lethargic grace of old weather. Passersby assume she is waiting for someone. She isn’t. She is conducting a small experiment: how long can one person stand still and unproductive in a city that measures everything? So far, the only thing that has tried to move her is the wind.