"Hey, congrats on your dad getting out," Lark said as she stepped onto the elevator beside Apollo, gripping one of the overhead handrails as the compartment lurched upward. Her voice was light, casual, but Apollo could hear the curiosity beneath it. "How long was he in there this time?"

"Eight months," Apollo answered, shifting to make space in the packed elevator. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and metal, and bodies pressed too close for comfort. "It's one of the longer stretches."

Lark frowned slightly. "That's rough." Then, tilting her head, she asked, "How does that even work? How can your debt go down by being in prison?"

Apollo let out a short breath, as if he'd answered this question too many times before. "They put the prisoners on jobs that no one else wants to do. The nastiest stuff—sewer treatment, waste disposal, maintenance in the lowest levels of the dome. The kind of work that makes your skin stink for weeks." He rolled his shoulders. "It's the highest-paying work here, if you can even call it that. It's not like the pay goes to him—it just chips away at what we owe."

"That's... strange," Lark murmured, her gaze unfocused as she stared at the dull steel walls. Her fingers tightened slightly around the rail. "Does it ever worry you?"

Apollo glanced at her. "What?"

"That you'll inherit it. The debt."

He exhaled, a quiet, humorless laugh escaping his lips. "I mean, it's not like I can do anything about it. I'll never work it off in my lifetime, so why stress over it?"

Lark turned to him then, her expression unreadable, but there was something in her eyes—something softer, deeper. She slipped her arm around his. "But... what about our kids' lifetime?"

Apollo hesitated, then gave her a lopsided smile. "It won't be worked off for generations. So we really don't have to worry about it, do we?" He squeezed her hand lightly. "And it's not like I want to be a Sovereign anyway."

Lark sighed, resting her head briefly against his shoulder. "Still... it would be nice."

The elevator gave a violent shudder before stopping, and the heavy doors groaned open. A flood of people spilled out onto the Ground Level, the hum of conversation and hurried footsteps filling the cavernous space. Apollo tugged Lark aside, steering her toward a quieter corner where the press of bodies wasn't so suffocating.

"I'll see you tonight, alright?" he said, his voice quieter now.

"Perfect," she replied. Then, tilting her head, she asked, "Do you have any classes today?"

Apollo hesitated, then gave her a guilty smile. "I could... but I'm picking up extra shifts."

Lark scoffed and punched him playfully on the arm. "And you just said you don't care about being a Sovereign!"

"I don't want to be a Sovereign!" Apollo said, exasperated.

His words carried farther than he intended. The hum of the crowd faltered, just for a moment—just long enough for him to feel the weight of the stares pressing down on him like a suffocating blanket. A murmur rippled through the air, barely audible but unmistakable.

"A Hovrick."

Apollo stiffened. His jaw clenched, but he forced himself to keep his expression neutral. Lark's fingers tightened slightly around his arm, and he knew she had heard it too.

"I don't want to be a Sovereign," Apollo repeated, his voice quieter now, nearly lost in the hum of the passing crowd. He ran a hand through his hair, his fingers lingering at the back of his neck. "I just don't want to end up in prison like my dad. I want to be able to live a normal life."

Lark's gaze softened, but there was something distant in her eyes, something wistful. "A normal life is to be a Sovereign," she murmured, almost like she was trying to convince herself. She let out a breath, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. "I know we'll never be, but I like to pretend. I want to open a bookstore one day. A real one, with shelves made of wood instead of metal and a window that looks out to something other than concrete walls. But that's just a dream, and dreams don't mean much here."

Apollo watched her as she spoke, the way her hands moved when she got lost in her thoughts. He had heard all of this before, but he never got tired of watching her want something.

"For now," she continued, her voice steady, "I'll go to school, get a better job, work my way up. Pay off as much as I can. And maybe—just maybe—one day, my great-great-great-granddaughter will be able to open whatever kind of business she wants. As a Sovereign. Free."

Apollo nodded, though a tiredness settled in his chest. This was always where their conversations led. It wasn't that he didn't care, but hope had never come easily to him. It is what it is. That was what his dad always said.

Still, it was a good thing he loved her. Otherwise, he might have found all this talk exhausting.

"I know what you mean," he said instead, steering the conversation toward something lighter. "But right now, I've got to get to the fields. I'll see you after work, okay?"

Lark studied him for a moment before she rose onto her toes and kissed him, quick but firm, like she was pressing the feeling into his skin. When she pulled back, she smiled. "I'll see you after. Have a good day."

She gripped his hand tightly for just a second, then let go, vanishing into the crowd, her small frame swallowed up by the flow of people heading toward the school sector.

Apollo stood there for a moment, watching the love of his life disappear into the endless stream of movement. He was a lucky one, for sure.

Sure, Lark had unrealistic dreams, but it was that very same dreaming that fueled her—an endless fire of ambition and determination. The Aldens had a surplus of willpower. They were one of the leading families in the community, always striving, always wanting. It was a miracle she even looked his way.

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head with a smirk before turning toward the direction of the labor fields.

It was back to reality now.

Apollo walked toward the fields, his boots scuffing against the worn metal panels of the pathway that led to the dome's edge. The air was thick with the scent of industry—hot steel, churned-up earth, and the faint chemical tang of recycled water. Overhead, the artificial lights pulsed in a steady rhythm, mimicking the rising sun beyond the glass. But he knew better. There was no sun here—just the dome, the glass, and beyond that, the endless White Desert.

As he walked, his mind drifted back to the day he met Lark.

It had been in an Old English class, of all things. The class itself was a joke—no one needed Old English in Noria, but the Sovereigns insisted it was part of a "well-rounded education." Apollo had been atrocious at it, barely scraping by. Lark, on the other hand, was brilliant. He didn't know why she had taken an interest in him. Maybe she had just felt sorry for him.

"I can tutor you if you'd like," she had offered one day after class, brushing her auburn hair behind her ear.

Apollo had shaken his head immediately. "I can't pay you."

Lark had laughed, a light, easy sound that had caught him off guard. "I don't expect to be paid much."

"You don't understand," he had said, firm. "I can't pay you at all."

She had tilted her head, studying him in that way she always did—like she was peeling back layers, searching for something underneath. Then, with a smirk, she had said, "Maybe you can take me for a walk to the glass one of these days."

Apollo had frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I overheard you saying you're starting a job at the fields soon," she had admitted, folding her arms across her chest. "You'll be by the glass all day. I want to see it."

"Oh, so you're helping me out just so you can see the Desert?"

Lark had only shrugged, unbothered by the accusation. "Maybe. Is that such a bad thing to do?"

At the time, Apollo had thought it was ridiculous—who wanted to see the Desert? The Sovereigns claimed it was lifeless, a wasteland of white nothingness. But Lark had wanted to see for herself.

In the end, the tutoring never really happened. Instead, they had walked to the glass, sneaking out whenever they could. By sheer luck, there hadn't been a storm the first time, and the glass had been clear. They had stood there, side by side, staring out at the boundless, untouched sand, so pristine it almost looked holy.

It had become a ritual after that.

Every day, they met at the glass. Their conversations started off light, but after a week, they grew deeper. By the end of the month, Apollo knew—knew—that he would marry this girl. She was everything he had never dared to hope for, a fire burning against the cold indifference of Noria.

Everything had been perfect.

Until she found out he was a Hovrick.

That day was the worst memory Apollo had.

A sudden, blaring alarm shattered his thoughts, yanking him back to the present. The 7 o'clock warning. His stomach lurched—he was going to be late.

He broke into a run.

The shuttle had already taken off, its engines leaving a low hum in the air. His run turned into a sprint. If he didn't make it on time, they would dock his pay—worse, they might send him to processing. He refused to end up like his father.

Marvin always started the day later than most jobs, fully aware of how far the fields were from the housing sectors. It was one of the few mercies he offered his workers, and Apollo was grateful for it. By the time he arrived at HQ, the morning air inside the dome had already warmed, the artificial sun casting long streaks of light across the metallic walkways.

Apollo slung his bag onto a rusted hook and pulled on his gloves just as Marvin clapped his hands together, signaling the start of the day's briefing.

"Now, lads and ladies," Marvin said, his voice carrying the easy authority of a man who had been in charge too long to take anything seriously. "I expect good work today. Better than yesterday, even. And because I am such a generous man, today we'll be giving out the Best Worker Bonus. I want all of you striving for that."

A ripple of interest passed through the group. The bonus meant an extra hundred credits—nothing life-changing, but enough to cover a week's worth of meals if you stretched it.

"Except for Derek," Marvin continued, smirking. "I always expect less from him."

Laughter rang through the laborers. Derek, a broad-shouldered man with perpetually oil-streaked sleeves, raised his hand with a mock bow.

"Happy to disappoint, boss," he said, grinning.

Apollo knew better. Derek was the fastest worker in the fields, sharp and efficient. It was no secret he had been inching closer to Sovereign status—rumor had it he was only a couple thousand credits away. That alone made Apollo respect him. Few ever made it that far.

"Today, we're working in section Charlie," Marvin went on. "Your positions are on the whiteboard. Let's get moving."

The group surged forward to check their assignments, but Apollo stayed back. He already knew where he'd be. When the crowd thinned, he stepped forward, scanning the board.

H1.

Of course.

It was the farthest position from HQ, the one pressed right against the glass. He had been placed there the day before. And the day before that. And the day before that.

Marvin wasn't an idiot—he knew Apollo tended to hang back on certain days. Knew that Lark would find him there. Technically, no one was allowed near the glass unless they had a work assignment in the area, but Marvin never enforced that rule too harshly. Once, he had confided in Apollo that he used to do the same thing—to steal moments with the woman who would become his wife.

Apollo hoisted his bag onto his shoulders and started the long walk to H1.

The hike gave him time to think.

His job was simple but grueling: insert nitrogen capsules, weed, water. Repeat. The crops, fragile as they were, needed constant tending, and the fields stretched far, row after endless row. But Apollo had long since developed a rhythm. He was careful, methodical. He knew exactly where he had left off the night before.

If he was lucky, he might even beat Derek today.

He adjusted his pack, shifting the weight of his tools. The nitrogen capsules were heavy in bulk, so he always stocked up. The last thing he wanted was to trudge all the way back to HQ mid-shift.

At last, he reached his section. Without hesitation, he got to work.

He moved quickly, misting the crops just enough to loosen the dirt. Weeds came up easier that way, their roots slick and fragile. With practiced precision, he jabbed a rod into the soil, dropping a capsule into the hole before smoothing it over. He worked backward down the row, each motion automatic, his mind half elsewhere.

Then—

THUNK.

His pack slammed against the glass. The deep, hollow sound rippled through the field, loud enough that a few neighboring workers glanced up in amusement. It happened to all of them at some point—working this close to the dome, it was impossible not to misjudge the distance now and then. But it always startled him.

Apollo exhaled, rolling his shoulders. He turned, inspecting the glass to make sure he hadn't chipped it. It was fine. As expected. But something had changed.

Where his pack had hit, the sand that usually coated the dome had fallen away, leaving a small, clear patch of glass.

Beyond it, the White Desert stretched, vast and endless.

Apollo leaned in. It really was beautiful out there. Lethal, but beautiful.

He had always been fascinated by it. As a child, he had visited the science center where they kept a pit of real desert sand for kids to play in. He had stolen some, sneaking it into a small bottle that still sat by his bedside. He planned to give it to Lark the day he proposed, a memory of the days they had spent here together.

On impulse, he reached up and tapped the glass. More sand fell, widening the window.

He hit it again, harder this time, watching as another layer crumbled. The smooth transparency beneath was mesmerizing, like a secret being uncovered.

A soft punch.

Another.

And then—

Apollo jerked back, his breath catching in his throat.

Through the glass, staring at him from the other side—

Two dark eyes.

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