JUNE 12, 2033 | CLASSIFIED LOCATION

  The room was dark, illuminated only by the sterile blue glow of a floor-to-ceiling monitor. On the screen, a digital waveform flickered with every word from a distorted, disgruntled voice.

  "The mineral is volatile," the voice rasped. "Centuries of dormancy have not dampened its radiation. But for the 2-3%, it is not a poison. It is a key."

  In the center of the room, two guards in tactical gear hauled a heavy, lead-lined canister. They positioned it in front of a young, mixed-race boy. He couldn't have been more than sixteen. His blue eyes were wide with a terror that no amount of Republic conditioning could mask.

  "Bring the subject forward," the voice commanded.

  The guards forced the boy’s hand toward the open canister. Inside lay a jagged shard of stone, pulsing with a faint, rhythmic internal amber light. The moment his skin made contact, the boy didn't just scream—he came undone.

  The process was gruesome. It looked less like a gift and more like an assault. His veins turned a glowing amber, tracing paths across his neck and face like burning wires. His bones cracked and reset in seconds. Then, the yelling stopped.

  The boy stood still, his breath hitching. He raised his hand, and made contact with the arm of one of the guards. It melted instantly. The guard screamed in pain. The other guard quickly aimed his weapon and shot the boy in the head.

  "Technique confirmed," the voice said, sounding bored. "Seal the canister. The main shipment moves tonight to the Sector 7 Warehouse. Ensure the 'surplus labor' stays clear of the loading docks."

  The waveform on the screen went flat. They didn't know that one of those 'surplus' workers was a boy named Kaelo. And they didn't know that someone was already watching the shadows, waiting for the shipment to land.

  JUNE 12, 2033 | SECTOR 7 WAREHOUSE

  Kaelo moved with a rhythmic, mechanical dullness, shifting crates from the loading bay to the inventory stacks. Most of the boxes weighed forty kilograms or more, a weight that would have crushed him at fourteen, but at nineteen, it was just the tax his body paid for existing.

  It was during shifts like this he missed his mother the most. He often wondered what the point of these menial jobs was if he had no one left to provide for. He had seen Ahmed that morning for the first time in over a year. It was a stinging reminder of the debt he owed. Ahmed was the one who had pulled him off that bathroom floor five years ago; Ahmed was the one who had paid for his mother’s body to be incinerated. For six months, Ahmed had dragged Kaelo everywhere just to keep him from finding a permanent way out of his grief.

  Without him, I wouldn't be here, Kaelo thought. Ahmed was studying in college now, supported by a wealthy sponsor he was sleeping with. He had offered Kaelo a place to stay multiple times, but Kaelo refused every time. He couldn't stomach the idea of being a charity case.

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  "Hey, Nimble," a voice called out, breaking his train of thought. "I’ve got something to holler at you about."

  It was one of his coworkers—a guy Kaelo didn't know well, but who always seemed too enthusiastic for a place this gray.

  "Talk to me during the break," Kaelo said, not breaking his stride.

  "The job can wait." This time, the voice belonged to his manager. "This is important."

  Kaelo stopped. If the manager was telling him to stop working, it wasn't a promotion. He dropped the 50kg crate he was holding; the thud echoed through the hollow warehouse.

  He followed them into a cramped back office. Six men were already there, hunched over a table. The air was thick with sweat and nervous energy.

  "You sure we can trust him?" one of the men barked the moment Kaelo entered.

  "He’s quiet, and he’s quick," the manager replied, his eyes locked on Kaelo. "That’s exactly what we need. Now... let’s discuss the plan."

  "I caught a break," Dauda whispered, leaning over the table. He looked at the six men, his face lit by the jittery glow of a single overhead bulb. "A high-level shipment manifest was left unencrypted on the manager’s terminal for five minutes. It was sloppy. Arrogant. They don't think people like us can read, let alone plan."

  Chidi let out a low whistle. "And you’re sure about the timing?"

  "Bay 4. Two in the morning," Dauda confirmed, tapped the blueprint. "The guards will be Republic contractors—lazy, overpaid, and expecting a quiet night. We hit them before they even unbuckle their holsters."

  Kaelo watched the manager. Dauda looked triumphant, like a man who had finally outsmarted the giants. Kaelo felt a chill that had nothing to do with the warehouse's industrial cooling. It felt too easy. Information like this didn't just "fall" into the hands of a floor manager.

  But then he looked at his own hands—scarred, stained with grease, and empty. He thought of the five years he’d spent being "legal" and where it had gotten him. He was still in the dirt.

  "But how do we get weapons?" Thomas asked, his voice wavering.

  "You doubt me too much. You’re just like your biblical counterpart," Dauda laughed, though the sound was dry and hollow. "For years I’ve been smuggling guns out of this company and selling them on the black market. I’ve kept a few choice pieces back for a rainy day. Well, boys... it’s pouring."

  Kaelo felt the doubt in his gut tighten. It all felt too convenient. The guns, the manifest, the timing—it was a tower of cards, and he knew he’d have to be the one to catch it when it inevitably collapsed.

  "The more important thing is how we split the money," Chidi interrupted. The other men grunted in agreement, their eyes suddenly sharp with greed.

  "You men are much too greedy," the manager said, a fake, oily smile stretching across his face. "I take sixty percent. You split the rest."

  The room exploded in hushed, angry disagreements. The mask of the "friendly manager" slipped instantly. Dauda’s eyes turned cold, his posture straightening until he looked less like a foreman and more like a warden.

  "If you refuse, there are hundreds of desperate souls in this factory who would kill for a chance at this," Dauda whispered, the threat hanging heavy in the stagnant air. "You are free to walk out that door. But I can't guarantee you’ll still have your jobs..." he paused, his voice dropping to a lethal crawl, "...or your lives."

  The silence that followed was suffocating. The men looked at each other, the realization dawning that they hadn't been invited to a meeting—they’d been drafted into a war.

  "I'm in," Kaelo said hurriedly.

  He didn't care about the sixty percent. He didn't care about Dauda's ego. He just needed to maintain the manager’s trust long enough to see the shipment. He knew these men; once the adrenaline hit, they’d likely plot to kill Dauda, and Dauda would likely plot to kill them. It was a room full of corpses that hadn't stopped breathing yet.

  Following Kaelo’s lead, the rest of the men muttered their consent.

  From this moment onward, Kaelo thought, his heart turning to stone, the right thing is no longer an option.