Sleep evaded Apollo that night. No matter how he tossed and turned, his mind refused to quiet. Images of Evyn's face, her hurried writing, the strange symbols on the glass—they all looped in his head like a song he couldn't turn off. He had come home late, dust still clinging to his clothes, and though his grandma had only grinned knowingly, his parents had exchanged subtle but pointed glances. They didn't scold him, didn't question him, but the tension hung in the air like an unspoken warning.

He wasn't entirely sure what they were worried about. It wasn't as if he had done anything wrong. At worst, he had broken curfew—though Grandma, much to his parents' chagrin, had once told him the curfew rules weren't about safety so much as control. Too many boys and girls sneaking off together, she had whispered, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. And so, laws were passed. Regulations put into place. And then, of course, there were the patches.

Apollo absently rubbed at the small, flesh-toned patch adhered to his arm, the one that dispensed daily vitamins and supplements meant to keep people in perfect health. Grandma had theories about those too. She suspected they did more than just regulate nutrition—that they suppressed something fundamental in people, dulled emotions, muted impulses. The city was peaceful, orderly. Crime was nearly nonexistent. There hadn't been a murder in generations. No theft, no assaults, no chaos. It was a perfect society. Almost.

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But what about Evyn's world?

Apollo stared at the ceiling, eyes tracing the tiny cracks in the plaster. Was it like the stories? Were there really places where people still starved? Where violence wasn't just something from history books? The very idea of such things felt alien. He tried to imagine Evyn's life, the way she had written with such urgency, the way she had hesitated before agreeing to meet again. Did she fear for her safety? Did she live in constant uncertainty? The thought sent a shiver through him.

Sometime just before dawn, exhaustion finally pulled him under—only for his alarm to yank him back up an hour later. He bolted upright, heart hammering, and smacked his wristwatch to silence the shrill beeping. The moment the noise ceased, he could hear the telltale sounds of morning: the clatter of dishes, the hum of conversation. He was the last one up.

Dragging himself out of bed, Apollo shuffled into the main living space. The house was small, but it always felt crowded in the mornings, even more so in the tiny kitchen. Steam curled from a pot on the stove, and the scent of cinnamon and oats filled the air.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," Mom said as she set down a bowl for him. "Oatmeal today!"

Apollo grumbled in response, rubbing his eyes as he reached for the bowl. He squeezed past his mother, bumping shoulders in the cramped space. Their kitchen always felt full, even with just one person inside. But with the entire family moving about—setting the table, preparing food, gathering supplies for the day—it was nothing short of chaos.

"Are you excited for today?" Dad asked, barely looking up from the glowing interface on the table. His fingers flicked across the surface as he scrolled through the Administration News, skimming headlines with the detached focus of someone who already knew the answers.

Apollo hesitated mid-scoop, watching the clump of oats slide off his spoon and land with a wet plop into his bowl. "What do you mean?"

"Your interview."

His stomach twisted. Right. The interview. The six-month interview. He should have been expecting it—technically, he had been preparing for it his entire life—but somehow, it had slipped his mind. Or maybe he'd just been avoiding thinking about it.

"Uh, yeah," he said quickly. "I'll just have to get ready, and then I'll be more excited." The words felt flimsy, like a paper shield against the wave of anxiety creeping up his spine.

He shuffled over to the table, taking exactly two and a half steps to his usual spot beside Grandpa, who was slumped over with his fist pressed against his cheek, snoring softly.

Apollo stared into his bowl, half-listening as Mom moved around the kitchen, straightening things that didn't need straightening. "Make sure you head up on time," she said, not unkindly, but with the firm expectation of someone who knew what was at stake. "Make a good impression, right?"

"Yeah, you're right," he murmured, stirring the grey mass of oats without real intent. "Do we have any brown sugar?"

"I'm saving that," Grandma said without looking up. "Sorry, bud."

Apollo didn't say anything, but something sharp twisted in his chest. He knew it was just the morning grogginess, the anxiety, the lack of sleep—that was why everything felt like a bigger deal than it was. But still.

When he was a kid, he used to think, When I'm older, I'll eat as much sugar as I want. That had felt like the ultimate freedom back then. He almost let himself fall into the same childish thought, but he caught it just in time. He knew better now. Sugar was expensive. Everything was expensive.

Debt.

The word sat heavy in his mind, just as it always did.

If Grandma sacrificed herself at ZeroO2, their family's debt would go down. If Grandpa did? Even more. And if his great-grandparents had gone before they racked up hospital bills—before illness and work accidents claimed them—their family might have stood a chance at something better. Instead, their debt had only grown, passed down like a family heirloom no one wanted.

Apollo clenched his jaw and forced himself to shake off the thought. It wasn't worth it. He wouldn't go down that path. That was how families broke apart—how resentment took root and twisted love into obligation. Some, like the Hovricks, fought against it, stubbornly clinging to the idea that family came first. They believed in working off their debt the natural way, even if it meant enduring longer, harder years of servitude. But there was always someone—always—who shattered that fragile unity. The guilt-trippers, the ones who called it honor, the ones who painted their selfishness as selflessness. They whispered about the greater good until the weight of expectation crushed the weak-willed into submission.

Lark was already mourning her parents, though they were still alive. Their deaths were inevitable—planned, expected, scheduled like an appointment they could never miss. It was just a matter of when.

She and Apollo had talked about it more than once, shaping their future the way society had shaped every generation before them. As soon as they were married, they would apply for a child. As soon as the child was born, her parents would report to the ZeroO2 sites. That was the way things had always been for her family. A simple transaction. One life extended, another surrendered.

Apollo hated the thought of it. He had grown up with his grandparents—knew them, loved them. Their presence had mattered. But for Lark, it was just the way things worked. The natural order.

Because of how delicate the issue was, they hadn't talked about their own deaths yet.

Not yet.

The silence stretched between them at the breakfast table, thick with unspoken thoughts. The oatmeal in Apollo's bowl had cooled, congealing into a lumpy mess.

A sudden memory jolted him. "Dad, what do I do if I picked up a shift today during my interview?"

His father flicked through the glowing interface on the tabletop, barely sparing him a glance. "Just put 'six-month interview' in the reason bar for not showing up. All jobs have to be lenient with that."

Apollo nodded, absently stirring his oatmeal before forcing a spoonful into his mouth. It slid down his throat, thick and slimy.

It sat heavy in his stomach.

Just like everything else.

***

"Mr. Hovrick?"

Apollo quickly stood up.

"Please follow me."

He followed the young woman through a frosted glass door and down a hall. She walked almost too fast, and Apollo had to near a jog in order to keep up. How could she move that fast in such high heels?

She stopped suddenly and gestured to an open door. Apollo nearly ran into her.

"Right through here, sir," she said, smiling professionally.

Apollo muttered a quick "Thanks" and stepped inside. The room was sterile, like everything else in the Administration Sector—white walls, a sleek metal desk, and a single chair facing the large, wall-mounted screen. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, their artificial glow casting a harsh brightness over everything. No windows. No warmth. Just efficiency.

A man sat behind the desk, his dark suit crisp, his posture stiff. His expression was unreadable, a perfect mask of neutrality. He glanced at a tablet before looking up at Apollo.

"Take a seat," the man said, his voice clipped and professional.

Apollo sat, hands gripping his knees to keep from fidgeting. He had done this before. There was no reason to be nervous. And yet, the weight of the moment pressed against his ribs.

The man tapped something on the tablet, then folded his hands neatly on the desk. "This is your six-month review, Mr. Hovrick. Standard protocol. We'll discuss your progress, your financial standing, and any concerns or adjustments to your work plan. Understood?"

Apollo swallowed. "Yes, sir."

The screen flickered to life behind the man, displaying rows of numbers. Apollo didn't have to read them to know what they meant—his debt, his wages, the precise number of hours worked, the projected timeline for freedom that stretched so far ahead it might as well have been a life sentence.

The man's eyes flicked over the data. "Your family's outstanding debt currently sits at 9.8 million credits." He paused, letting the weight of the number settle. "A minor reduction from last term, but still substantial."

Apollo's stomach clenched. Minor was an understatement. He and his family had worked themselves to exhaustion for six months, and they had barely chipped away at the total. At this rate, they'd never clear it.

The man continued, his tone detached. "You, personally, have reduced your share by 4,700 credits. That keeps you in good standing. No penalties, no infractions. Your work ethic is commendable."

Apollo said nothing. What was there to say? That the number was meaningless? That he could work himself to death and barely make a dent? That every extra shift, every overtime hour, every sacrifice, amounted to a drop in an ocean?

The man swiped at his tablet. "However, your projected clearance remains at..." He tilted his head slightly, eyes scanning the data. "Three hundred and seventeen years."

Apollo barely held back a bitter laugh. He knew the number was bad, but seeing it confirmed like that made his throat tighten. Three hundred and seventeen years. Longer than multiple lifetimes. Longer than hope.

"Let's talk about your plans," the man said. "Is marriage on the horizon for you?"

For the first time in this interview, Apollo gave a genuine smile. "Yes, sir."

"What's the name?"

"Lark Alden."

The man typed in the name, and Apollo watched as his expression flickered with recognition. His brow raised slightly before he exhaled, tapping at the screen.

"Lark Alden. Projected debt: 320,000 credits. A family of three. No living grandparents. Parents projected to be debt-free within the next twenty years." He glanced at Apollo. "Well. That's a rarity."

Apollo nodded stiffly. He already knew where this was going.

"You understand the consequences of merging your financial standings?"

"Yes, sir."

The man hummed, tapping again. "With your union, her financial trajectory will stall. The combined debt total would sit at 10.3 million credits, and your family's timeline for clearance would supersede hers. That's a significant shift."

Apollo kept his expression neutral. "She's aware."

"And her parents?"

This time, Apollo hesitated.

The Aldens had never said it outright, but he could feel it every time he was in their home—the quiet weight of expectation. They were polite. They were kind. But they also understood the system better than most.

They had a plan.

The man glanced at the screen again, as if confirming something. Then he leaned forward slightly.

"It says here that Alden Senior and his wife have already applied for ZeroO2 authorization. Their documentation lists their projected entry as occurring after the birth of their first grandchild."

Apollo's stomach twisted, even though he had known. Lark had told him herself.

"As soon as the child is born," the man continued, tapping the screen. "They go in." He lifted a brow. "That's a substantial inheritance for your child. A guaranteed reduction of debt."

Apollo pressed his hands against his knees. "They made the decision themselves."

"Of course." The man leaned back. "And you? You have no thoughts on this?"

Apollo swallowed. He had plenty of thoughts.

Lark had spoken about it like it was fact, like it was a course already charted and set in motion. She loved her parents—deeply. But love didn't matter in the face of survival. She had been raised knowing this was how it would go.

"They want a better future for Lark. For our child." Apollo's voice was even, but his chest felt tight.

"And for you," the man pointed out. "Your projection with a child and their sacrifice moves your debt timeline from three centuries to 142 years." He studied Apollo carefully. "You could see the beginning of real change in your lifetime. Perhaps even the start of clearance for your grandchildren."

It was a cruel thought.

Apollo clenched his jaw, forcing himself not to react. The numbers still weren't good. He and Lark would be dead before anything truly shifted.

But their child wouldn't carry the weight alone.

And maybe that was enough.

The man exhaled, marking something down. "Very well. Your six-month assessment is complete. You remain in good standing. See that it stays that way."

Apollo stood, his limbs heavier than before.

"Good luck," the man added. "And congratulations."

Apollo didn't answer. He wasn't sure which part he was supposed to be congratulated for.

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