The apartment—if you could call it that—was a converted shipping container stacked on top of a hundred others in Sector-4's "Residential Zone C."
It vibrated constantly. Every time a mag-lev train passed overhead, the metal walls shook, rattling the few possessions they owned: a hot plate, two thin mattresses, and a shelf of scavenged books.
Aryan stood outside the rusted metal door, taking a deep breath.
He wiped the blood from his split lip with his sleeve. He pulled his hood down to cast a shadow over his bruised cheek. He forced his shoulders to relax, shaking off the exhaustion of the ten-hour shift.
Smile, he told himself. Don't bring the rain inside.
He keyed in the code. The lock engaged with a grinding screech he had been meaning to fix for months.
He stepped inside.
The air in the container was warm and smelled faintly of lavender. Not real lavender—that was extinct—but the cheap synthetic scent sticks Anya burned to mask the smell of the city's sewage.
"I'm home," Aryan called out, locking the door behind him.
A cough answered him first. Deep, wet, and rattling. But it was quickly stifled.
"You're late," a voice came from the corner. It was weak, but sharp. "And you're walking heavy on your left leg. Did the crane break again?"
Anya was sitting up in her bed, surrounded by old mechanical parts. At sixteen, she looked twelve. Her skin was the color of parchment, almost translucent under the dim LED strip light. Her hair, once thick and black, was now thin and brittle.
But her eyes were alive. Intelligent. Too perceptive for her own good.
She put down the small drone motor she was tinkering with—her way of earning a few credits from home.
Aryan smiled, kicking off his heavy boots. "Just overtime. Rao is a slave driver, you know that. But he paid the bonus."
It was a lie. A smooth, practiced lie.
Anya narrowed her eyes. She beckoned him over. "Come here."
"I need to shower first, I smell like..."
"Aryan. Come here."
He sighed and walked over to her bedside. She reached out, her fingers cold and trembling, and pulled down his hood.
She saw the bruise instantly. The swelling on his cheekbone where Rao had backhanded him.
She didn't gasp. She didn't cry.
She just traced the edge of the bruise with her thumb, her expression hardening.
"Rao?" she asked quietly.
"I slipped," Aryan said, looking away. "The rain makes the debris slick."
"You slipped," Anya repeated, her voice dry. "And your face landed on someone's knuckles? Do you think the Mana Poisoning eats my brain, Bhai?"
Aryan gently took her hand and lowered it. "It doesn't matter. I got the credits. That's what matters."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the physical credit chip—the 200 credits he had extracted from his wrist-link earlier. He placed it on the small table next to her medicine vials.
There was only one vial left. And it was empty.
Anya looked at the credits. Then at the empty vial. Then back at him.
She did the math instantly.
"It's not enough," she whispered. The sharpness in her voice vanished, replaced by a terrifying fragility. "The pharmacy raised the price again, didn't they?"
Aryan didn't answer. He walked to the small sink and splashed water on his face to hide his expression.
"It's fine," he called out over the running water. "I have a lead on a new job. A big one. High hazard pay."
Behind him, the sound of tinkering stopped.
"What kind of job?" Anya asked.
Aryan turned off the tap. He dried his face with a rough towel. He knew this was the moment. He had to sell the lie perfectly.
He walked back to the bed and sat on the edge. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the crumpled holographic flyer he had grabbed from the street.
PROJECT: NEW HORIZON.
Signing Bonus: 50,000 Credits.
He unfolded it and smoothed it out on the blanket. The gold letters seemed to glow in the dim room.
Anya read it. Her eyes went wide, then immediately cold.
"No," she said, pushing the paper away.
"Anya, look at the number," Aryan said, keeping his voice calm. "50,000. That's a cure. Not just stabilizers. A real gene-therapy cure from the Upper Plate hospitals."
"It's a Recruitment Drive for the Outer Gates," Anya said, her voice rising. "I watch the news, Aryan. I know what happens in the 'New Worlds.' They need bodies to clear minefields. They need bait for the beasts."
"That's for the combat units," Aryan lied. "This is for pioneers. Builders. Porters. It's exactly what I do here, just... further away."
"Don't lie to me!"
The shout triggered a coughing fit.
Anya doubled over, clutching her chest. Her body convulsed violently.
Aryan was moving instantly. He grabbed the oxygen mask hanging by the bed and pressed it over her face.
"Breathe," he whispered, rubbing her back. "Easy. I'm here. Breathe."
He watched in horror as the black veins on her neck pulsed, looking like ink spreading under her skin. The Mana Poisoning was accelerating. The ambient mana in the air was toxic to her incompatible biology. Without the Stabilizer, her own blood would turn into acid.
It took two minutes for the fit to pass.
When she lowered the mask, there was a speck of blood on the plastic.
She leaned back against the pillows, exhausted, her eyes half-closed.
"Don't go," she whispered, gripping his hand. Her grip was incredibly weak. "Please. I don't care about the cure. If you go through that Gate, you won't come back. Everyone knows the casualty rates."
Aryan looked at the blood on the mask.
He looked at the empty vial.
He looked at the 200 credits that wouldn't save her.
He squeezed her hand.
"I'm not going to die, Anya," he said softly. "I'm too stubborn to die. You know that."
"Aryan..."
"I signed up," he said. It wasn't true yet, but it had to be. "I leave tomorrow morning."
Anya closed her eyes. A single tear leaked out, cutting through the grime on her cheek.
"You're an idiot," she whispered. "A brave, stupid idiot."
"I know," Aryan smiled sadly. "But I'm your idiot."
He stayed with her until she fell asleep, the exhaustion of the fit dragging her under.
When her breathing finally evened out, Aryan stood up.
He walked to the small table and picked up the flyer.
New Horizon.
He knew she was right. It was a meat grinder. The Guilds didn't pay 50,000 credits for safety. They paid it for silence.
He looked at Anya one last time. In her sleep, she looked peaceful, the pain momentarily forgotten.
This was the only thing worth fighting for in a world that had abandoned them.
Aryan grabbed his backpack. He packed his only other set of clothes, a multi-tool, and a picture of their parents.
He walked to the door. He didn't look back. If he looked back, he wouldn't be able to leave.
He stepped out into the rain-soaked night of Sector-4.
The Spire waited in the distance, a glowing needle promising salvation and threatening death.
"Wait for me," Aryan whispered to the closed door. "I'll bring the cure."
He turned and walked into the shadows.