Wednesday, 06 February 2047

  Morning light crept through the narrow gaps in the metal walls, weak and pale against the clutter of the hideout. I stirred on the thin mattress, still heavy from the night's intoxication and the adrenaline of the neon streets. Miller was already moving, gathering our factory uniforms and boots to return them to their concealed storage, muttering to himself about tidying the space, when a small box slipped from his grasp and clattered against the floor.

  The lid tilted just enough. Components spilled briefly across the metal — valves, connectors, small and precise and entirely familiar. They were identical to the ones I had calibrated the day before, the same pieces we produced on the assembly line. I said nothing. Miller gathered the uniforms without seeming to notice my stillness, leaving the box and its contents unremarked. I let the moment settle like an unspoken question and carried it with me out of the hideout.

  We retraced our path through the tunnels. The morning light barely reached the cold concrete, and the air smelled of oil and damp metal — familiar, oppressive, and oddly steadying after the brief freedom of the hidden city.

  At a narrow corner, a figure emerged from the shadows — tall, lean, wearing yellowed rags frayed at the edges and stained with grease, hair matted, eyes sharp and darting between the tunnel walls as though every shadow might conceal something worth taking. My pulse jumped. I recognized the look — the same weathered rags, the same predatory stillness as the men from the road two nights before.

  Miller's hand pressed against my shoulder before I could react. "Don't," he whispered. "They're common here. Just keep moving."

  I matched his pace, heart still hammering, and didn't look back.

  Inside the factory, everything was as usual: repetitive, meticulous, relentless. My headache worsened against the frenetic pump and roar of the production room. At some point, Mr. Ellison looked up from his notebook.

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  "Are you all right, Operator?"

  "Yes, sir. Everything is fine."

  Everything must be fine, even when it isn’t.

  Miller wasn't at the canteen. The clatter of trays and the hiss of dispensers felt hollow without him — a missing beat in the lunchtime rhythm. I found an excuse to pass his sector of the production line, but he wasn't there either. He appeared only at the very end of the shift: calm, unhurried, back at his post as though he'd never left — timed precisely to the window when his supervisor would have been away. I said nothing. He slipped past me when the shift ended, and I let him go.

  My transport was late again. I managed to board, pressed in by the crowd, and rode back in silence.

  At the metal shack, I dropped my bag and reached for a scrap of paper and a pen. There was nothing else to do with what was pressing against me.

  To: Samantha Wright

  From: E-41729

  Beta District, Tutor's Preparatory School

  My love,

  I cannot stop thinking of the day we met, in the park during the Foundation's Holiday. I remember the exact spot, the symmetry of the paths, and the geometric pattern of sunlight on your dress. That day, I fell completely, never imagining the labyrinth of choices and sacrifices that awaited us.

  These days, I ache for us to be together. Yet the decisions were unavoidable. Our son could not remain with us. We had to send him to EIP — the Early Integration Program — shortly after his first birthday. Then you received that relocation opportunity, and together, these arrangements earned the credits we needed to acquire goods and ensure Sam's education.

  Still, I cannot summon gratitude. I know many endure far worse. We have a roof over our heads, nourishment, stable labor. The Corporation provides for our family. Though distance separates us, we remain tethered, a unit in spite of everything.

  Lately, nightmares have visited me. We are stranded in the wilderness, without badges, without guidance. Sam cries. I cannot find sustenance or water. Shadows shift, and gangs close in. I see myself acting violently, striking to protect you and him. I do not wish to be a killer, yet fear offers no alternative. In these visions, my hands commit acts I would otherwise reject.

  In another dream, you are distant, silent. I cannot reach you. I see only the back of your head, the sweep of your hair, and it pierces me with unutterable sadness.

  My love, I must sleep. The day has been long, heavy with observation and thought. I hope this letter reaches you, as a tether across the distance. I will never forget you.

  Always, Forty-Two