"Some days start painfully."
Raimund Geppert, lying on a pile of trash in a back alley of Sector 3 Residential District, was one of the few who knew that fact all too well.
Since humanity built the shelter and isolated the human race from the cruel external environment, the world had changed a lot.
People trapped inside the transparent dome-structured society quickly adapted to the changed world, and within the ever-shrinking environment, they began looking out for their own survival.
Of course, there were always those who fell behind.
Those who couldn’t adapt to change, those who lost their jobs and homes for whatever reason, those who were expelled, those who ran away.
Such people wandered the streets like gloomy ghosts, pale and bloodless, without any purpose or will.
Compared to those people, Raimund was in a considerably better situation—though his whole body reeked of stench, and his swollen cheekbone throbbed from a beating.
Rummaging through the pocket of his worn jeans, he found a sleek black wallet.
It contained various cards, receipts, and even a cozy family photo of unknown origin, but none of that mattered.
He poked his finger deep into the card slot and touched something hard and thin.
A pale yellow plastic stick, about half the size of a normal business card.
“Oh, this looks like a pretty good haul.”
He quickly pulled the stick out and stuffed it back into his pocket, then carelessly tossed the wallet onto the pile of trash. After confirming it had landed well behind a biodegradable garbage bag clogged with filth, he got up.
“Ouch. That guy sure packs a punch.”
“Figures, just by looking at him.”
Raimund muttered, rubbing his cheekbone. He’d been hit just for bumping shoulders with someone passing by.
Though he felt awkward admitting it, he secretly took pride in his face.
No one ever told him at the orphanage, but maybe his abandoned mother or father had some decent looks.
Raimund’s blonde hair was a rare vivid blonde, and his eyes were a dark green.
Nineteen years old, a bit over 6 feet 2 inches tall, well-built enough not to be disrespected wherever he went.
But he wasn’t going anywhere. Or rather, he couldn’t.
Shaking off the trash from his body, he pulled his hat deep over his head and left the spot.
Sector 3 Residential District wasn’t a place for the well-off, but sometimes luck followed. Raimund felt the clinking of three or four credit sticks in his pocket.
He headed to the main road and took the unmanned tram. The red tram was the only one connecting here to Sector 5 Residential District.
Wiggling through the packed crowd, Raimund found a corner seat and stared blankly at the passing scenery.
That bastard who bumped him would only realize his wallet was gone after about thirty minutes.
He’d retrace his steps to the shops and places he’d visited, and only very late would he finally think of Raimund.
Then he’d probably check the trash bin where he had dumped him, but well—what he’d find there was nothing but a dirty wallet missing the credit stick.
Imagining that made Raimund feel a little better. His aching cheekbone even seemed to improve.
Less than two hours later, the tram stopped slowly at Sector 5 Residential District. Few passengers remained after passing through Sector 4.
Raimund got off with the swaying crowd, passed under the rusty and crooked station sign, and entered a narrow street thick with damp and gloomy fog.
The houses lining the street were all small, cramped, and smelled strange.
A foul stench that seemed a mix of mouse droppings and musty air. Probably contributed by his own smell too.
He carefully avoided brushing past passersby or being bumped himself. It was completely different from Sector 3.
But here, that was necessary.
Sector 5 Residential District—the place where those who were rejected by all flocked, all hoping to get government-supplied housing.
People without proper jobs, scraping by day to day at best. Otherwise, crazy folks huddled in fog-filled alleys muttering incomprehensible sounds.
Raimund passed his strangely familiar neighbors and quickened his pace.
“Abby Lane.” The street name was scrawled in paint on the damp ground. Raimund stopped in front of a small house at the end of the street and finally relaxed.
Where are the keys… where are the keys.
Click.
“Hyung!”
A small warm body wobbled and grabbed Raimund’s leg.
Raimund easily picked the child up and hugged her.
“Hazel. Were you playing well? Where’s Fioni?”
“With Olive hyung.”
She was probably no older than four.
The child called Hazel answered mumbling, with her hand in her mouth.
Raimund pulled Hazel’s saliva-covered hand out and wiped it on his clothes, then kissed her cheek.
A small two-story house.
Climbing the narrow stairs with rusted railings, Raimund saw Fioni cautiously closing the door in a cramped hallway.
She looked tired, as if she had just finished caring for Olive, but brightened at seeing Raimund.
“You’re already back?”
“Got something done. How’s Olive? Already asleep?”
“No… I don’t think he can sleep without painkillers. That leg’s still a problem.”
Fioni lowered her voice so no one inside could hear.
Raimund sighed despite himself.
Effective painkillers were expensive, and those who could afford them didn’t live here.
“If we’re lucky, maybe we can buy a bottle. Then Olive might get better.”
“That’d be great. But don’t think we’re just dumping all this on you, okay? Both Olive and I are just thankful to you.”
“I know. I get what you mean.”
“I need to go wash Hazel’s pants.”
Ignoring the worn elbows of the shirt she was wearing, Fioni used Hazel’s pants as an excuse to slip away.
Raimund waited a moment, then lightly knocked on the door.
“Olive. I’m coming in.”
The bedroom was much smaller than downstairs. The boy occupied the only bed.
When he saw Raimund, the boy immediately sat up. He tried to smile as if nothing was wrong, but Raimund noticed the cold sweat on Olive’s forehead and his pale face.
“Hyung. You’re back early today.”
“Yeah. I came quickly because I was worried about our family.”
Raimund sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, joking.
Family.
Those from the orphanage in Sector 4.
At that, Olive faintly raised and lowered the corners of his mouth.
“Yeah, since things turned out like this, should I call you ‘Dad’ too? Like I did to the director?”
“Ugh. You think I’m the kind of guy who hits you like the director? What nonsense. I’m the breadwinner running around feeding, clothing, and putting you to bed.”
“Alright. Anyway, you didn’t come empty-handed. You brought something good.”
“Right. Just check how much is inside.”
Raimund handed the credit sticks to Olive: two white ones and one pale yellow.
Olive fetched an old junk laptop from the bedside table.
This was their old teamwork. Raimund brought them, Olive hacked the security program and checked the amount.
No one knew how Olive bypassed the credit stick’s lock, but he always did exactly what Raimund wanted.
“The white ones don’t need a separate device. Together they have 423 credits.”
“The yellow one?”
“Wait a moment… here, 1,640 credits.”
Olive pounded on the rattling keyboard and turned the laptop screen to Raimund, showing white codes and numbers on a black program screen.
After the shelter was built in England, continental trade failed to develop and the currency exchange system collapsed, so all shelter governments across continents established a new currency.
Humans who once bought things with shells, then with gold, myrrh, spices, and silk, moved away from paper and aluminum to currency existing only in the electronic world.
That new currency was called Credit.
The device storing credit was called a Credit Stick.
People carried credit sticks in their pockets as they once carried paper bills and coins.
There was no limit on how many credit sticks one could carry, but the credits stored per stick were limited by serial number.
For example, the most common white credit stick could hold up to 500 credits.
Yellow could hold 2,000, red 3,000.
Rare black sticks could contain tens of thousands.
Of course, some special credit sticks directly linked to bank accounts existed, similar to past check cards, but few dared to use them due to security concerns.
For a petty thief like himself, losing everything to the bank would be tragic.
“There are some downsides, but for a day’s work, this isn’t bad, right?”
“Gonna launder it into old currency?”
“Yeah. I’ll take it to a broker. They take too much commission, but there’s no other way.”
Was the fee 8 percent?
Raimund watched Olive disable the security program and started calculating in his head.
2,063 credits minus 8 percent fee,
Rent this week, 250 credits to the shelter government.
300 credits to send to the orphanage director.
73 credits for electricity and water.
Food would cost a bit, and oh, Fioni kept mentioning the plumbing repair—might as well get it done now. Wait, would there be enough left to buy Olive’s painkillers? If they postpone the plumbing…
“Hyung, I’m done. Here you go.”
“Thanks.”
“That’s what I should say. You brought us here.”
Olive seemed sincere when he added that.
Raimund took the laptop and carefully laid Olive down.
“Let’s move somewhere better someday. You deserve a space where you can move around.”
“I don’t have legs anyway.”
“You can use prosthetics or a wheelchair. What’s the problem?”
“Haha.”
Olive let out a hollow laugh and closed his eyes. He really looked exhausted.
Raimund left the bedroom quietly. Downstairs, Fioni was busy thawing frozen food and fixing Hazel’s clothes, but she got up, puzzled, seeing him come down.
“Going out again?”
“Yeah. I have to finish today’s work.”
“Be back before dinner. Hazel, say goodbye to hyung.”
“Okay.”
Hazel shoved her fist back into her mouth while Fioni frowned and wiped the drool sliding down her chin.
Raimund smiled cheerfully, waved, and left the house.
But as soon as he stepped outside, his cheerfulness evaporated like steam.
Unconsciously, he thought: Ah, I wish some credit bundle would just fall from the sky somewhere.
Sector 5 Residential District.
Located at the outermost edge of the shelter, it was a slum where the shelter’s failures and poor gathered.
Here, all that could be heard were the noisy clangs of scrap heaps brought from the economic and other residential districts, and the stench of garbage mountains.
When artificial rain fell, the streets quickly flooded.
Those without even a place to lie down naturally crawled into narrow alleys, tram stop benches, and sealed sewers.
Compared to them, Raimund was a huge lucky guy.
Before leaving the orphanage, an epidemic flu had swept through Sector 5, killing many vulnerable people who could barely buy medicine, let alone receive treatment.
Thanks to that, Raimund got a home allocated by lottery to shelter citizens right after leaving the orphanage.
At first, thinking someone had died and been removed from the house felt unsettling.
Now he wanted to bow in thanks.
Is that immoral?
Not at all.
To survive Sector 5, one had to sell their conscience, morality, and ethics. Such feelings were luxury.
If you don’t eat right now, you die. If you can’t pay rent, you get evicted. Shelter nights are cold and harsh.
Acting on your conscience won’t guarantee your life.
You might die with the nickname “Good Samaritan,” but…
Anyway, Sector 5 is that place. The lowest bottom of the shelter, a cesspool of life.
If only he could leave this place.
Raimund didn’t ask for much.
It’d be enough if Fioni, Hazel, Olive, and himself could live somewhat normally.
A fridge and shelves stocked with plenty of food,
A house without leaks, warm enough without needing to hold Hazel under a blanket,
Windows that let in fresh air instead of the stench of rotting trash,
A place where Olive could move freely using prosthetics or a wheelchair,
An institution nearby where Hazel could get proper treatment and education,
And a place safe enough that Fioni could go for walks alone at night.
Raimund wiped his face.
No, really. He was genuinely disgusted with this street.
He wished there were no crazy old men wandering barefoot, asking strangers if they had money.
He wanted to escape the watchful eyes that scanned for anything to steal or any resident who looked too happy.
But…
To do that, he couldn’t keep doing petty pickpocketing like now.
He had to find a better-paying job.
Though uneducated, the kinds of work he could do were limited, but he still needed another opportunity.
A big chance to escape from this miserable life worse than sewer sludge.
But to wait for such a chance, he inevitably needed money, and the quickest way to get it was pickpocketing.
Was he doomed to become a worthless criminal after all?
Just like the orphanage director always said,
Was he nothing but a useless presence who only dirtied the shelter?
No, get a grip.
If stealing or whatever else could support those three, that was enough.
No complaining, Raimund.
“First, I’ll check other residential districts again, then go to the broker, and check painkiller prices…”
Recalling the tasks he had to finish today, Raimund headed back to the tram station.
That was the last routine day Raimund remembered.