"So, I've got your attention now, right?" Victor asked, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. He had just spilled information that wasn't meant to be shared, confident it would be enough to break through his friend's indifference.
But to his surprise, the walls of indifference were thicker than he had anticipated.
"Still not playing," Adyr replied.
Victor stared at him, eyes wide with disbelief, like he'd just been personally offended. "Okay... okay... Just tell me why," he said, his voice a mix of confusion and hurt. This game might've been his only shot at finally getting a genetic mutation. So whatever his reason was—it better be a damn good one.
Adyr sighed. "Do you know how much the game helmet costs?"
Victor thought for a moment before answering. "I don't know... 15,000?" Like every rich kid, he was clueless when it came to price tags.
Adyr let out a slow, tired breath at the response. Victor's complete lack of basic awareness never failed to unsettle him. "It's 7,199 credits," he said flatly.
Victor shrugged, completely unfazed. "Oh, cheaper than I thought," he said, that same clueless grin still stuck on his face.
Adyr's thoughts turned cold for a moment. This guy might just end up being my first victim in this life. He forced a smile. "It's not cheap. Not even close. Do you know what a low-class family earns in a month? Mine, for example?"
Before the idiot could throw out another clueless guess, Adyr cut him off. His voice sharpened, each word landing with weight.
"My mom's the only one working. She makes 600 credits a month—that's actually considered decent where we come from. I get 100 from the university as a scholarship. That puts us at 700."
He paused just long enough for it to sink in.
"Now imagine we don't spend a single credit. No food, no rent, no electricity—nothing. We'd still need to save for over ten months just to afford one helmet."
As Adyr spoke, his eyes naturally tracked the subtle shifts in Victor's expression. First, a slight twitch beneath his eye. Then, the tightening of his jaw as he began to grit his teeth.
And finally, in a tone sharper than usual, Victor snapped, "You jerk."
Without another word, he spun around and stormed off—his steps quick and heavy, each one louder than the last.
Apparently, he was angry about something, but Adyr didn't seem even slightly bothered. He completely ignored him and glanced down at his wristwatch, noticing the hour hand resting on five and the minute hand pointing to one.
"Huh. Better not miss the bus," he muttered, then turned and continued walking quickly.
It took him five minutes to leave the faculty building.
As soon as Adyr stepped outside, he felt the change. The warm, filtered air inside gave way to the harsh, unfiltered reality of the world beyond. Though it was summer, the air felt unnaturally cool, not refreshing, but dry and metallic, each breath leaving a faint sting in his throat.
Overhead, thick yellowish clouds blanketed the sky, casting a sickly hue over the campus. They hung low and heavy, like a warning. Rain was coming—the kind that didn't just soak through your clothes, but irritated your skin and left behind a lingering chemical scent.
He pulled out a cheap cloth mask and slipped it on, then adjusted a pair of worn plastic goggles over his eyes. The air wasn't deadly on contact, but staying in it too long left your throat burning and your skin itching in patches you couldn't scratch.
It took him about twenty minutes to reach the bus stop at the edge of campus.
Just in time.
A bit of relief slipped through. Due to the Resource Conservation Act, there were only two buses a day—the first in the morning, and this one. If he missed it, he'd be stuck walking the three-hour route home, possibly under contaminated rain.
Even for someone like Adyr, that would've been an unpleasant idea.
As he approached, he spotted a small group of students standing near the stop, their posture slouched with the weight of the day. He walked up without a word, quietly observing.
Like him, they wore cheap cloth masks and basic goggles to shield their eyes. Unlike the wealthy students with gene-enhanced skin, the commons like them had to protect what little nature had given them.
Their uniforms were faded, their colors washed out, and edges fraying—a silent but clear sign of where they came from.
They were his kind—the poor, the unmodified. Each of them had earned their place at the only university in Shelter City 9 through raw talent and determination, yet they remained the quiet one percent no one ever mentioned.
Not long after, the bus quietly pulled up to the stop. Adyr was the last to step inside. He took the first empty seat he found, not caring about comfort or space. In a world like this, just being able to ride a vehicle was already a luxury in itself.
After a short ride, the bus turned onto a wide street lined with rows of two-story buildings on each side. Though the houses were small and dull—painted in nothing but shades of gray—they were still considered one of the better residential areas in the city.
Soon after, Adyr got off the bus and walked up to the door of one of the houses. He glanced at his wristwatch—just a few minutes past six—then pulled out his keys and unlocked the door.
A wave of warm air mixed with the scent of cooked tomatoes greeted him. A familiar, cheerful voice followed right after. "Welcome back, brother!"
Adyr looked up and saw a smiling head pop out from the kitchen doorway. "Hey, Niva. What's for dinner? Smells good."
She was only a year younger than Adyr, with short, shoulder-length hair as dark as night. Unlike her brother, her eyes were a striking light blue, creating a sharp contrast against her fair skin.
"Tomato soup," she replied with a mischievous grin. Realizing the subtle frown that appeared on her brother's face, she added, "I know you don't like it, but it's the end of the month… It's the only thing we have left."
She disappeared back into the kitchen, only to return a second later with a concerned look. "Did you get into a fight again?" She asked, eyes narrowing as they scanned his face.
"No?" Adyr answered, slipping off his shoes. "I just… slipped and fell."
Niva wasn't buying it. "Brother, that's the second time this week. If the bullies get too annoying, just tell them your sister's more than happy to kick their asses." She flexed her thin, bony arms in mock threat.
To her, with no father figure around, her brother had always been the smartest and coolest person in the world. She couldn't imagine a scenario where he wasn't in control, so she brushed it off with a lighthearted joke.
Adyr chuckled. "Yeah, I told them that. You know what? They actually backed off." Then, a bit more seriously, he added, "Just don't tell Marielle, alright? No need to make her worry."
Niva giggled. "Alright. Just leave your clothes in the bathroom—I'll get them washed before she gets back."
"You're the best," Adyr said with a thumbs-up before heading upstairs, where his room and the bathroom were located.
He changed out of his clothes, tossed his uniform into the laundry bag, and grabbed a wet tissue to wipe himself down.
He glanced at his reflection, checking for any visible signs of the beating. Only a faint bruise had surfaced on his pale, sickly skin.
Once he was finished, he checked the time. 6:28. Time to head downstairs.
The table was already set for him—one bowl of tomato soup, a small piece of bread, and a few pickles on the side—just a single serving.
It was clear that Niva had already eaten, and their mother hadn't returned from work yet.
"Brother, clean up the table and handle the dishes after you eat, okay? I'm heading upstairs to do the laundry," Niva called out as she made her way up.
"Alright," Adyr replied, easing himself into the chair.
He stared at the bowl in front of him. The soup looked redder than usual—so vivid he could almost swear it was brighter than any other day.
His empty stomach and the low grumbling from within were enough to push him into motion. He picked up the spoon and dipped it into the soup.
That's when it started.
"Not this crap again," he muttered, as a cold sweat crept across his forehead.
Plop.
His unfocused gaze flickered, landing on two round shapes rising in the soup—side by side, unmoving.
Too round.
Too familiar.