The checkpoint itself is a low concrete structure, pockmarked with age and neglect. A heavy gate of corrugated metal stands open, revealing the rest of the city block beyond. Three metrocops man the station, their white-and-black armor stark against the grime. They move with an almost mechanical efficiency, scanning citizens, waving them through.

A man stands just ahead of Y/n. He's of average height, with brown hair cut short and a face that's seen too many of these mornings. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, his gaze fixed on the line ahead, but there's a restless energy to him. He glances back at Y/n, a fleeting look, before speaking in a low, hushed tone.

Ahead, a metrocop is patting down a young woman, her hands raised. Her head is bowed in a practiced submission. The metrocop's movements are brisk, impersonal, a series of quick, practiced gestures before he waves her through. The line shuffles forward a few more feet.