[Sector 9 - Street Level]
The district didn't believe in night. It was a seizure of neon.
Holographic signs crawled across every available surface, bleeding pink, blue, and green plasma light onto the wet composite pavement. Ads floated three stories up, fighting for attention with jingles about synthetic caffeine and burial insurance.
Stepping out of the apartment block felt like walking into a kaleidoscope. The light hit instantly, blindingly bright after the dimness of the room.
The crowd on the street was dense. Thousands of gray jumpsuits flooded the sidewalks, a river of bodies flowing toward the transit hubs.
At a glance, it looked lively. People were talking, laughing, shouting over the noise of the trams zipping overhead. Some were sharing smokes; others were hyped up on the cheap synthetic energy drinks sold on every corner.
But looking closer, the mirage broke.
The laughter didn't reach the eyes.
Behind the smiles and the chatter, their gazes were flat. Dull. Like the lights were on, but nobody was home. It was the look of a man on death row trying to enjoy his last meal.
For a split second, a cold spike of unease pricked the back of my neck.
The memory of waking up in that white room—gaspless, weak, terrified—flashed behind my eyes. That hollowness in their faces… it was contagious. It was a mirror showing me exactly what happened to people who stayed in the grinder too long.
I faltered, my step hitching slightly. The bravado slipped.
Is this it? Am I just going to rot here too?
I clenched my fist in my pocket, digging my nails into my palm until the sharp pain grounded me.
Stop it, I ordered myself.
I forced my shoulders to drop and shoved the fear down into the pit of my stomach. I couldn't afford to be human right now.
I adjusted my collar, sliding into the current of bodies. I moved with the flow, hands in pockets, finding the gaps in the crowd without breaking stride.
To the horizon, the city stretched out like a massive, flat dartboard. This was the outer ring—Sector 9. The cheap seats.
The station was a bottleneck. The lines for the ticket scanners were backed up, a stagnant pool of workers waiting for the green light.
I didn't check the civilian lines. I walked straight to the Service Gate. My ID was flagged for the Conduit Tower—the highest-risk zone in the city. That usually came with priority access.
I swiped the card.
Beep.
The gate hissed open.
I walked through without looking back at the crowd stuck in the queue. Privilege wasn't about fairness; it was about having the right clearance.
The Service Line platform was quiet. A reinforced high-speed mag-lev train waited, its windows tinted heavy black. Stepping inside, the doors hissed shut, cutting off the noise of the station.
The train surged forward, shooting straight for the center.
Through the gaps in the heavy transit tube, the window offered a view of the city peeling away layer by layer.
We flashed past Sector 8.
The neon madness vanished. The chrome towers were replaced by sleek white concrete curves and minimalist glass. Manicured green lawns dotted the landscape. It looked sterile. Organized.
Then Sector 7.
The glass disappeared. The timeline rolled back again. Red brick. Wrought-iron fences. Detached houses with actual chimneys.
Cute, the thought crossed my mind as I watched them cosplay a medieval fantasy in the middle of a sci-fi world.
It made sense. In a world where anti-gravity drives were mass-produced, owning a pile of actual, heavy red bricks was the ultimate flex. It was just like the old days—once the car was invented, the horse went from a tool to a rich man's status symbol. Here, technology was for the poor; the rich paid for the privilege of the primitive.
Finally, the train began to decelerate.
Sector 6. The Core.
Rising in the distance were spires of white stone, ringed by massive walls and fluttering banners. It looked like a storybook castle, except for the shimmering distortion in the sky above it—atmospheric scrubbers keeping the Count's air perfectly purified.
The shadow of the destination swallowed the car. Standing on the edge of that paradise, guarding the clean air like a black iron watchdog, was the Conduit Tower.
The doors hissed open.
Stepping onto the platform brought an immediate realization.
So that's why their eyes are dead.
The air here felt... thick. Spicy. It wasn't choking, but it sat heavy in the lungs.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
[ HAZARD: High Density Zone. ]
[ WARNING: Prolonged exposure accelerates Soul Crystallization. ]
I recalled the data I had pulled up earlier in the apartment. In this world, the Awakened weren't called mages. They were Soul Architects.
It wasn't a metaphor. To survive the crushing weight of raw Aether, you literally had to build a structure within your own spirit to hold it back.
Knights (Tier 1): Sank Pillars into their spiritual core. Good for holding the body together, but open to the elements.
Barons (Tier 2): Built Walls. A sealed perimeter inside the soul that blocked external pressure.
Counts (Tier 3): Constructed a Keep. A fortress capable of storing vast power.
For a high-level Soul Architect—a Baron or above—this high-density zone was just free fuel. Their internal Walls kept the pressure out, filtering only what they needed.
But for trash like me? I was a Grade F- Knight. My internal Pillars were rotting wood, and I had no Walls. I was a house with no roof in a hurricane.
The Aether forced its way through the gaps in my soul, leaking directly into the physical body. And the body's only defense against raw Aether was to calcify.
It turned soft tissue into crystal to seal the leaks. Lungs turned to glass. Veins turned to stone. It was a slow, agonizing petrification.
I looked at the massive black tower looming above. It was a meat grinder disguised as a power plant.
I took a measured inhale, tasting the metallic tang of the raw power. It was dangerous, yes. But in the underworld, the most dangerous jobs always paid the best—if you survived them.
"High risk, High reward" I muttered, tapping my knuckles against the railing to hide a slight tremor in my hand.
I walked toward the security checkpoint, eyes sharp.
Time to clock in.