Evyn arched an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement dancing across her face. "I get it—from inside your dome, the outside world must seem brutal, lifeless. But once you push past the Sands, you'd see it for what it really is. My family is from the Scar region. There's an underground river that feeds the land, turning it into an oasis. The desert blooms there, and when the sun hits the fields just right, it looks like the whole world is made of gold. It's beautiful."

Lark leaned forward, intrigued. "Is that where you're headed now?"

Evyn shook her head. "No. We've been picking up radio signals from an unknown source. One keeps calling us toward a place called the Eden Rift. But there's another—different frequency, different message—telling us to go to the Mirage Belt."

Apollo narrowed his eyes. "And have you been to either of these places?"

"No one has," Evyn admitted. "People have speculated about them for years, but every explorer who sets out to find them... never comes back."

Apollo scoffed, incredulous. "And your family thinks this is a good idea?"

"We don't have much of a choice," Evyn said simply. "The land around the Scar has grown crowded. We can't sustain everyone much longer. So a large group of us decided to take our chances, heading in the direction of both locations. Once we reach the sea, we'll decide which way to go."

"Wait." Lark's voice caught in her throat. "There's a sea?"

Evyn's smile lingered, touched with a wistful edge. "Yeah. It's beautiful. I visited about ten years ago to see off one of the explorers. My family made a trip out of it—a little holiday by the water. Some people live there permanently. Honestly, I think they have the right idea, settling near the sea. Except during the sandstorms, it's a peaceful place."

Apollo frowned. "If it's so nice, why don't more people just live by the sea?"

Evyn sighed, shaking her head. "It's not sustainable for a large population. This planet—Noria—is harsh, unpredictable. At least, that's what I've always heard. But it's nothing compared to Earth."

Apollo's brow furrowed. "Wait—you call it Noria too?"

Evyn nodded. "Of course."

Lark leaned forward, intrigued. "How long have your people lived here?"

Evyn's face brightened with pride. "Our society just celebrated its 100th anniversary."

Apollo let out a low whistle. "That's a long time—what, a hundred generations? My family only came here about eight generations ago. Yours must be ancient."

Evyn blinked, confused. "What do you mean, 'generations'? My family got here 100 years ago. Not 100 generations."

Something in Apollo's mind snagged, like a puzzle piece that refused to fit. He glanced at Lark, who looked equally unsettled but seemed to grasp something he hadn't quite pieced together yet.

"I have a great-great-great-great-grandfather who arrived on Noria six generations ago," Lark said slowly. "That was about 60 years ago. He was on the last ship to ever make it here."

Evyn laughed, but the sound was uneasy. "What are you talking about? A generation isn't ten years." Her amusement faded when she saw Apollo and Lark's grim expressions. "Right?"

Apollo hesitated. "We... have a system under the dome. Not that I agree with it, but—"

"Apollo's family is against it," Lark interrupted, "but it's practical. It keeps the population under control."

Evyn crossed her arms. "What does?"

Lark hesitated, then looked to Apollo, who sighed and took up the explanation. "It's called the ZeroO2 Program. When someone... decides they're done, they sign up for voluntary termination."

Evyn's face twisted in horror. "Assisted suicide?"

Lark shook her head quickly. "Not exactly. It's not suicide because..." She trailed off, searching for words. When she turned to Apollo for help, he simply shrugged.

"Well, it's not," she insisted. "If you volunteer your life, your family's debt is reduced by 10,000 credits. It's a simple way to lower what you owe."

Evyn's jaw slackened. She stared at them, waiting for the punchline, but none came.

Lark, suddenly flustered, scrambled for a better explanation. "We don't have kids in the traditional way under the dome. It would take too long. So... we grow them. They're born into the body of a twelve-year-old, then they start school—"

Evyn recoiled. "So you have twelve-year-old infants?"

"No, no," Lark corrected quickly. "They're implanted with Artificial Instinct. They come out knowing how to talk, read, perform basic functions—everything they need to integrate into society. The only thing they haven't figured out how to program is how to tie shoes." She laughed nervously, but her amusement died when she saw the horror on Evyn's face.

"It's not so bad! Some families decide to raise many kids, while most choose just one because it's cheaper. It's super expensive to grow a kid. But once the youngest is ready to move out, the parents..." Lark's voice died out. She was trying to keep the conversation light but Evyn's ever darkening expression lowered the mood.

"It's just the way things are done here," Apollo said, his voice quieter now, almost resigned. "My family doesn't agree with it, like I said, but... we do our best. I still have a grandma, if you can believe that. She's practically ancient. Her birthday's next week."

Lark perked up beside him, her tone light and teasing. "Yeah! She's what—thirty-four this year?"

"Thirty-five," Apollo said, puffing his chest slightly. "She's the oldest person I've ever known. It's kind of a big deal."

Evyn didn't smile. She folded her arms, the light in her eyes dimming just a little. "My great-grandfather, one of the last surviving settlers from Earth... is one hundred and six."

The words struck like a slap.

Lark's mouth fell open, and Apollo stared at her as if she'd just grown wings. Neither of them spoke for a solid ten seconds.

"So..." Lark started slowly, her voice shaky. "You're telling us it's only been a hundred years since people stopped arriving from Earth? Not hundreds? Not... eons?"

Evyn shrugged lightly, as if the revelation shouldn't be so shocking. "From what I can tell, your people haven't been here that long either. You've just... accelerated. Compressed what should've taken centuries into decades."

Apollo exhaled, hands on his knees, eyes wide. "This is insane," he muttered. "We weren't exactly lied to, but—no one corrected us. No one stopped the assumption. They just let us grow up thinking our civilization was ancient. Like we'd been here forever."

Evyn watched him quietly, saying nothing.

Lark, ever the realist, crossed her arms. "But what does it really change?" she asked. "So, the timeline's off. Big deal. We still have food, shelter, a functioning system. Our lives are fine."

Apollo gave a hollow laugh. "Speak for yourself."

Lark turned to him, frowning. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"My dad spends more time in prison than he does at home," Apollo said, staring down at the dusty ground. "And I grew up with people mocking me for having grandparents. Saying we were 'hoarders'—stealing time and oxygen from the rest of them."

Lark blinked. "My family isn't too different and no one—"

"You're different," he said, cutting her off without anger, just exhaustion. "People like you—bright, charming, genetically fine-tuned—you get praised. My family? We get warnings and fines. You don't see the system for what it really is, because it never chewed you up and spat you out."

She looked wounded, like he'd slapped her. "You've never said this before. You always seemed so... content."

"Maybe because I couldn't say it," Apollo replied, his voice dropping even further. "I didn't want to sound ungrateful. I didn't want to scare you."

He turned toward her now, his gaze filled with a vulnerability that struck deeper than anger ever could.

"Lark... I live in fear every day. Fear that I'll slip up. That I'll miss a payment. That I'll get arrested and disappear for a year. That you—and our child—will forget me while I work myself to death in a labor cell just to chip away at a debt that never shrinks."

"I'm working too," Lark said quietly. "My service credit will reduce the balance—"

"But don't you get it?" Apollo's voice cracked, not loud, but raw. "That's not the life I wanted. Not for me. Not for us. I don't want to watch you carry us. I want to be enough on my own. I want to earn a life with you—not owe one."

She reached for his hand, but he gently pulled it away.

"I know you plan to sign up for ZeroO2," he said, almost in a whisper, like the words themselves could shatter the fragile air around them. "You think I don't notice, but I've seen you checking the forms. You've been quiet about it... probably to spare me."

Lark swallowed, her lips parting to respond, but nothing came out.

Apollo looked at her with a small, sad smile—the kind that didn't reach his eyes. "Do you really think I'd stay here without you? That I'd keep going in this place... alone? When you go, I'll go too."

Evyn stood a few paces back, silent as the wind, but her expression had changed. She wasn't just observing now—she understood. This system, this culture, was foreign to her. But pain? That was universal.

It was the first time Apollo had spoken it aloud—this plan he'd kept locked in the back of his mind like a fail-safe. Not out of despair, but out of devotion. His love for Lark ran so deep, it reached beyond survival.

Lark's eyes filled with tears, and for once, she didn't try to blink them away.

"You shouldn't have to feel like that," she whispered. "You shouldn't have to go with me."

"I know," Apollo said. "But I will."

They gazed into each other's misty eyes, caught in a fragile silence that held the weight of everything unspoken—

"This is all well and nice," Evyn interrupted, "but I only have a few minutes."

The moment shattered, and Apollo blinked, snapping back to reality. "Right—sorry. Okay. Questions."

Evyn cast a glance over her shoulder at the open vent. "I don't think I have much time. My family's almost done packing. We're leaving soon."

"This late at night?" Lark asked, her voice laced with disbelief.

"It's the best time to travel in the desert," Evyn replied. "The night keeps us cool. Safer, quieter. No sun to burn or blind us."

"But you've been coming to the glass in the evenings," Apollo pointed out.

Evyn smiled. "I've always been an early riser. Besides, it was worth it." She took a small step forward, eyes gleaming in the lantern's flickering glow. "But here's the thing—you should both come with me."

Apollo's heart jumped. He opened his mouth to agree, but Lark let out a sharp scoff.

He turned to her. "What?"

"We can't just leave," she said, arms crossed tightly. "We have lives here. I have school. You have work."

"Work?" Apollo's voice was sharper now. "So we can labor ourselves into the ground until we finally earn the right to die in peace?"

"Apollo, be reasonable. We can't just run off with a stranger who shouldn't even exist," she said, turning to Evyn with a rushed apology. "No offense."

Evyn waved a hand. "None taken. But I'm not a stranger—not anymore."

"We can leave," Apollo said, stepping toward her. "We can get our parents and go. Build something new. Something free."

"You know my parents would never agree to that," Lark replied, shaking her head. "They're too close to Sovereign status. Too close to having everything they've worked for finally mean something."

At that moment, the lantern flickered. All three of them turned, watching as the light dimmed and then steadied.

Evyn took a breath. "We have to leave soon. I don't know how much longer we can stay in this region. My group's waiting."

"I'm going," Apollo said firmly. "I love you, Lark, but I think we'd love our lives even more out there—without glass between us and the world."

"You don't even know what's out there!" Lark's voice cracked, echoing against the chamber walls. "You've never lived outside this dome. You've never seen the storms. You've never survived them."

"I know what's in here," he said. "Debt. Prison. Quiet desperation. A system that tells us when to be born and when to die. Out there? There's at least a chance for something real."

Lark's hands trembled as she stepped back. "What is this?" she whispered. "A day ago, you didn't care about any of this. You had your interview and came home calm, steady—you were fine."

"Nothing's ever been fine," Apollo said. "I just stopped letting myself hope. But this—Evyn—changes everything."

He reached for her hand, but Lark didn't move.

"I love you," she said, voice breaking. "But I want the life I've worked for. The one I've expected. I can't throw that away."

Apollo's heart squeezed. For a moment, everything in him begged her to change her mind. But he saw it in her eyes—she wouldn't.

He swallowed hard. "Then I'll leave without you."

Silence fell like a curtain. Beyond the flicker of Evyn's lantern, the darkness waited. And so did the future—uncertain, wild, but finally, free.

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