She dressed with a mechanical efficiency, a byproduct of six years of the F.A.R.K.S. morning drill. Beneath her heavy outer layers, she wore thermal compression gear—black, ribbed fabric designed to trap body heat in a world that wanted to steal it. Over that went her civilian-issue work trousers and a thick, high-collared sweater. Finally, she pulled on her heavy coat. It was a utilitarian garment, thick with synthetic insulation.
Outside, the Empire of Leng was doing what it did best: burying itself. The snow fell in heavy, gray flakes—ash-laden and relentless. To navigate the 4th District in this weather was to walk through a static-filled dream where the buildings were only suggestions in the haze.
Violet took a deep breath, adjusted her collar to cover the lower half of her face, and stepped toward the door. She had decided. No nutrient paste today. No synthetic yeast-cakes. She was going to the 3rd District. She was going to see Miss Mary.
Mary was one of the few people who didn't look at Violet and see a designation. In the small, cramped kitchen of her restaurant, Mary provided something the Empire couldn't manufacture: the taste of a home that no longer existed.
Violet reached for the door handle, but before her fingers could touch the cold metal, a violent crash echoed from the hallway.
THUD.
It was followed by a shout—vicious, slurred, and thick with the kind of rage that only cheap, synthetic alcohol could fuel. Violet froze. Two doors down. The Kaelo family.
She knew them, or rather, she knew the sounds of them. The walls in these blocks were thin enough to transmit a heartbeat, let alone a domestic war. The husband, Boros, was a man whom the Empire had chewed up and spit out—a former dockworker whose knees had given out, leaving him to rot on a meager State stipend that he spent almost entirely on "Red-Label" spirits.
Violet opened her door quietly.
Boros was standing in his doorway, his heavy frame swaying like a tree about to topple. He was towering over his wife, Elena, his face a mask of bloated, crimson fury.
"You think I care about the quota?" Boros roared, his voice bouncing off the metal lockers lining the hall. "You think I care about what the Wardens say? I earned those credits! I spent the sweat of my life for those credits!"
Violet began to walk forward, her eyes fixed on the floor. In the Academy, she had learned the First Law of Survival: Interference is an inefficiency. You don't look. You don't help. You survive.
"Boros, please," Elena's voice was a desperate, hushed rasp. "Why are you spending our hard-earned credits on alcohol? Are you not a tad bit worried about our future child?"
Violet stopped. Her boots made no sound on the industrial carpet.
Elena was leaning against the doorframe, her hands clutching her stomach. Through the thin fabric of her maternity smock, the unmistakable curve of a bump was visible. She was six months along.
"The Empire gave us permission!" Elena continued, her voice gaining a frantic edge. "They gave us the permit to have a child after two years of waiting! Two years of begging the Bureau! We should be preparing, we should be happy! And you're drunk here... have you no shame?"
The mention of shame seemed to snap something in Boros. The Empire of Leng controlled everything—birth, death, and the calories in between. A child wasn't a miracle; it was a state-authorized biological asset. To Boros, that permit was just another chain.
"You bitch," he spat.
His hand came out in a blurred arc. The slap echoed like a gunshot in the narrow hall. Elena stumbled back, her head snapping to the side, a low whimpering sound escaping her throat. She didn't fall, but she curled inward, her priority clearly protecting the life under her heart.
Boros raised his hand again, his fingers curling into a fist. "Stop your wailing, you wench! I'll give you something to cry about—"
He never finished the swing.
Violet moved before she could give herself permission to stay out of it. Her hand shot out, catching Boros's wrist mid-air. She wasn't large, but she was a graduate of the F.A.R.K.S. engineering and combat modules. She knew where the tension in a human arm lived. She twisted her grip slightly, locking his radius bone.
Boros blinked, his bloodshot eyes struggling to focus on the girl with the violet hair.
"Don't," Violet said.
Her voice was cold—sharper than the winter wind outside. There was an intensity in her gaze that had been forged in the shadow of a V.I.S.O.R. unit's glare. She pushed his hand away with a strength that surprised both of them.
Boros stumbled back, his face contorting from shock to an even deeper, uglier rage. "Go away, you little cunt! This is none of your business. Keep your nose out of it!"
Violet didn't flinch. She stepped between him and Elena, her feet planted in a stable combat stance. "What kind of man are you, hitting a pregnant woman?"
She didn't wait for his answer. She reached back, catching Elena's arm and helping the woman regain her footing. Elena was trembling, her eyes wide with terror.
"Thank you," Elena whispered, her voice barely audible.
The sight of the two of them standing together infuriated Boros beyond reason. He let out a furious, wet grin, his teeth stained yellow.
"Stay the fuck away from my home, you little bitch," he growled. "Or... or..." He stumbled, a sudden, wicked thought seemingly illuminating his dim, drunken mind. A grin plastered itself onto his face. "Or I'll inform the Wardens. I've seen you, 4-882-B. I know who your father was. I'll tell them you're a revolutionary. I'll tell them you keep various books and films in your room."
For a split second, a cold shiver raced down Violet's spine. If the Wardens came, she wouldn't just be sent to the Moon; she would be erased.
But she didn't let the shudder reach her face. She let a smirk pull at the corner of her mouth—a crazed, defiant expression. She leaned in, her eyes widening.
"Go ahead," she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Go call them. Let's see if they arrest you first for breaking the Public Conduct codes, or if they kill me for being a revolutionary. But Boros... think."
She stepped closer, her grin widening into something jagged and uncomfortable. "If you inform them, they'll ask you one question: How long have you known? And when they ask, I'll tell them you were in on it. I'll tell them you've been reading those books with me. I'll tell them we shared the tapes."
She pulled a small, silver connector-phone from her sleeve and held it up. "Should I call them for you? Let's both die together. I've got nothing to lose. Do you?"
Boros backed off. The alcohol couldn't dull the sheer, unhinged look in Violet's eyes. He saw a girl who was willing to set the whole building on fire just to see him burn. He muttered something under his breath—a string of curses that lacked their previous venom—and stormed off toward the elevators, stumbling against the walls as he went.
Violet watched him go until the elevator doors hissed shut. Only then did she let her shoulders drop. She felt sick.
Elena pulled at Violet's sleeve, her touch light. "Thank you. He's been... he's been more on edge these last few days. The pressure of the permit, the lack of work... he's not a man anymore. He's just a ghost."
Elena paused, looking worriedly at the elevator. "But you shouldn't have intervened, dear. He might have harmed you. He's stronger than he looks when he's like that."
Violet straightened her coat, the adrenaline still humming in her fingertips. "Don't worry about me, Elena. A pathetic thug like him could never harm me."
Elena sighed in relief, leaning against the door. Violet looked at her, her expression softening but her words remaining blunt. "With how lowly and pathetic and cowardly he is... how did he even get you pregnant?"
It wasn't a joke. To Violet, it was a genuine engineering question—how did something so broken produce something so vital?
Elena let out a hollow, tired laugh. "He wasn't like this before. Before the mines closed, before the Empire took his legs and replaced them with 'State Gratitude'... he used to be so kind. I don't know what happened to him. The city just... it eats you, doesn't it?"
Elena looked down at her stomach. "And you know how it is. The Empire controls the population. You aren't allowed to have kids without their permission. We had always wanted children. After two grueling years of waiting, of interviews, of psychological evaluations... they finally gave us the permission. We thought it would save us."
Violet felt a surge of pure, unadulterated hate. It tasted like copper in the back of her throat.
"We aren't even allowed to do one thing without the damn Empire's permission," she spat, her voice thick with venom.
Elena's face went pale. She looked up and down the empty hallway, her eyes darting to the overhead sensors. "Don't say that out loud! Please, Violet. The walls have ears, and the ears have Veneers attached to them."
She waited a moment, then stepped closer to Violet, her voice dropping to a thread. "You have a good relation with the lady in the 3rd District, right? Mary?"
Violet nodded slowly.
"Well... alert her," Elena whispered. "The Empire is conducting an extensive search and investigation in the city. Something happened. Yesterday, there were news reports on the inner-circuit. Ten people were caught as revolutionaries. Seven of them were processed immediately... but three of them fled from the 2nd District."
Violet's heart hammered against her ribs. Three fled.
"The Wardens are turning over every stone," Elena continued. "Tell Mary that if she has any media—anything not sanctioned—tell her to hide it. Tell her to bury it deep. They are coming for everyone who doesn't fit the mold."
Violet nodded, her jaw set. "I'll tell her. Thank you, Elena. Stay inside. Lock the door."
Violet turned and walked toward the elevator. She didn't look back. As she descended toward the ground floor.
The snow was waiting for her outside, cold and gray, ready to cover her tracks.