Roxy had seen the Spire from a distance her entire life.
In Sector 4, it was just a silhouette against the sky, a dark needle piercing the white clouds, representing everything she couldn't have. Safety. Heat. Real food.
Standing in front of it now, she felt like an ant about to be stepped on by a god.
The gates weren't just gates; they were monolithic slabs of black matte metal that looked heavy enough to crush a tank.
She stood there, clutching the strap of her battered canvas bag. She had tried to look presentable. She had washed her hair three times with the harsh, chemical soap they issued in the slums, pulling it back into a severe, tight bun to hide the split ends.
She wore her "good" glasses, the ones where the crack in the left lens was taped over with clear adhesive, and a clean, albeit faded, white shirt she had bartered two battery packs for.
