The rain started halfway through the loop. It wasn't a downpour, just a persistent drizzle that made the cobblestones slick. Elias flipped the wipers on, the rhythmic thump-thump adding to the mechanical symphony of the bus. He lowered his speed, feeling the tires momentarily lose their grip on a particularly greasy patch of road.

As the sun began to peek over the horizon, the city woke up. Traffic thickened. Trabbis and Wartburgs zipped around him like colorful beetles. Elias had to stay sharp; one wrong move or a delayed brake could lead to a collision that would end his shift—and his reputation.

The city of Spandau was draped in the grey, heavy mist of 1986. For Elias, a young driver fresh out of training, the cockpit of the MAN SD200 wasn’t just a workspace; it was a sanctuary of buttons, levers, and the rhythmic hiss of air brakes. He adjusted his cap, checked his watch—exactly 05:00—and turned the ignition. The engine roared to life with a familiar, throaty rumble that vibrated through the floorboards.

Elias gave a quick nod, his hands busy navigating the heavy steering wheel. The manual transmission required a delicate touch—too much force and the gears would grind in protest; too little, and the bus would stall, much to the annoyance of the passengers. He eased into second gear, the bus groaning as it climbed the slight incline toward the Rathaus.