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The city didn’t stretch outward—it folded. One step from a rain-slicked alley and you might enter the same café from above, below, or last Tuesday. Residents memorized not street names, but intersections of probability. 5dm_city wasn’t built; it grew like a thought refusing to end.
In the Fourth Avenue of Echoes, your past self could wave at you from a window three turns ago. In the Spire of Simultaneity, all versions of 3:17 PM happened at once—someone was always late, someone always early, and someone never arrived. Tourists were given one rule: Don’t unfold the same corner twice.
They never listened. That’s why the city keeps growing.