No artificial sun marks day from night; the only light comes from shoddy streetlamps. A digital clock blares the end-of-work alarm, and workers, paid their daily credits to survive, drag weary bodies toward the undercity’s residential district.

  Toxin cleanup, error fixes in automated factories, livestock and farm management under constant camera surveillance—these grueling, low-wage jobs yield just two thousand credits for a relentless twelve-hour shift without breaks. With rent at fifty thousand credits a month, minus living expenses, workers are left with less than a thousand.

  Cultured produce and vegetables, even at rock-bottom prices, cost five hundred credits per gram. Wilted greens can’t fill a stomach, and workers who can’t afford edible meat buy fifty-credit human-flesh meatballs, pairing them with nutrient jelly packs to stave off hunger.

  No one knows when they’ll die or how long they’ll live. Emaciated, with no aid in sight, they lack credits to maintain rusted mechanical arms. A man, displaying his dwindling credit balance on his mechanical eye’s HUD, sighs deeply, pulling a stack of overdue notices and warnings from his overflowing mailbox.

  Loan shark demands with obscene interest rates, utility bill warnings, and blatant bio-part ads—no organic parts remain for him to sell. His heart relies on a failing circulator, his kidneys and liver on substitute mechanical components, his limbs and eyes fully mechanoid. The scum of the undercity’s bottom rung, barely able to work, he’s inferior to full mechanoids, mocked and scorned as a half-baked loser, a weakling.

  Opening his door, he scatters the notices across the floor, collapsing onto his bed as if losing consciousness. Three days without food, his body craves nutrients and calories, but everything he eats feels like poison, rejected by his failing system. Drained of will, exhausted, he gazes at a white angel idol on the table, praying as he lies there.

  If life is unequal, death is the true equalizer. People live to die, seeking release from soul and flesh. Those who forget death face a harsh life, forced to tread a path of thorns.

  Yet, the white holy angel liberates us from this suffering. Only those who revere and praise the savior’s other half find true peace in death. Thus, blind sheep seeking sweet death must follow the Prophet’s teachings, praying for the angel’s return. This is the doctrine of the trembling god’s cult, the man’s faith.

  Believers are saved. Nonbelievers are not. Whether one believes or not, religion—a tasteless, odorless mental drug—saves the individual’s heart. Mocked as foolish or worthless, its teachings are a spiritual crutch for the undercity’s weak.

  Rising sluggishly, nausea surging, the man stumbles to the bathroom, vomiting stomach contents into the toilet. Thin red streaks mix with yellow bile. Clutching his aching abdomen, his mechanical parts creaking, he shakily stands, gripping a small-caliber pistol and pressing it to his temple.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  End it here, before disease claims this life. Breathing deeply, trembling hand on the trigger, he suddenly recalls the girl who moved in next door.

  The guy in that room was a surly young man with a mechanical right arm. His lover? Girlfriend? Sister? No—her skin tone and features were too different to be his sister. Such a beautiful girl couldn’t be. Then… maybe he could indulge one last time. Threaten her with the gun, take her.

  A feral grin spreading, he presses his ear to the wall, confirming the young man’s voice is absent. A girl’s voice speaks alone. Quietly opening his door, he aims at the neighboring lock, lowering the hammer. A rapid burst of heavy gunfire echoes through the residential district.

  “—”

  Blood pours from his side—no, his torso barely clings together by skin and bone. In an instant, Heres’s blade severs his neck. As his vision darkens, he sees the young man’s disdainful glare and, beside him, a girl resembling the white holy angel, smiling faintly in his final moment.

  “…Should we move?” Eve asks.

  “Danang, you didn’t have to shoot right away,” Eve says.

  “Don’t be stupid, Eve. Rilse is here, and she can’t fight,” Danang replies.

  Kicking the man’s severed head, Danang hefts the bleeding torso and tosses it into the street. Eve sighs lightly, glancing at the kids and vagrants swarming the body.

  “But moving? There’s no safe place in the undercity,” Eve says.

  “The gate area’s relatively secure, but it’s pricier. Even the residential district has clear class divides,” Danang explains.

  “Huh. And this dump of an apartment?” Eve asks.

  “Total crap. Don’t even know the neighbors’ faces, and robberies are common. With you and Rilse here, moving’s worth considering,” Danang says.

  Unlocking the door and punching the passcode into the panel, Danang, bags in hand, steps into the apartment with Eve.

  “Well, you’re back. Made up yet?” Rilse asks.

  “More or less. Rilse, got what you asked for,” Danang says.

  “Thanks,” Rilse replies.

  Stretching her back, rubbing stiff shoulders, Rilse eyes Eve, who hesitates, unsure what to say. Patting her shoulder, Rilse says, “Welcome back, Eve. Hungry? I’ll cook, so wait a bit.” She heads to a pristine, unused kitchen.

  “…Rilse,” Eve says.

  “What? No picky eating—food’s food once it’s in your stomach,” Rilse teases.

  “Um… I’m home,” Eve mumbles, fidgeting.

  Rilse smiles at Eve’s shy words. Danang, lighting a cigarette, slumps into a chair, uninterested. A fragile trust binds the trio. Rilse, prepping food, directs Eve to set the table, then smirks mischievously at Danang. “Why not help, you useless lump?”

  “Want me to? Really?” Danang retorts.

  “…On second thought, no. Eve, clear the junk off the table. Toss the unopened cigarette packs too,” Rilse says.

  “Got it. Whole carton’s going,” Eve replies.

  “…What do I do, Rilse?” Danang asks.

  “Nothing. Just getting rid of useless stuff,” Rilse says.

  Grudgingly standing, Danang crushes his cigarette, grabs a trash bag, and hands it to Eve.

  For Eve, it feels like a distant memory—a time when family gathered for meals. Unconsciously smiling as she cleans, she wonders why this moment, this banter with them, feels so precious.

  “Hey, get serious, or I’ll cook something inedible,” Rilse warns.

  “I’m serious,” Danang says.

  “Me too,” Eve adds.

  “…Where’s the maintenance oil for my mechanical arm?” Rilse mutters.

  Their bond is unsteady, a wobbly stack of blocks, a puzzle with missing pieces—some striving to trust, others resisting.

  “Danang,” Eve says.

  “What?” he replies.

  “…Here’s to us, from now on,” she says.

  “Yeah,” he grunts, surly.

  Smiling at his grumpy reply, Eve helps Rilse, her smile that of a girl her age, unguarded and genuine.