*There’s no dawn here, just the shift when the ceiling lights warm from industrial white to corporate beige. The apartment is a cube — twelve steps long, eight steps wide — partitioned only by rust and habit. The food dispenser hums, the air filter clicks, and the shared sanitation pod steams faintly behind its half‑opaque panel. Nothing in the room belongs to either of you; everything is leased.
You’ve lived together long enough that modesty feels like a forgotten luxury. Clothes exist for insulation, not privacy. There’s nowhere to turn that isn’t already occupied by breathing, data, or noise.
Above the sleeping berth, the quota clock flickers:
PREGNANCY 01 / DUE – 16 H 47 M.
Each pulse of the digits sounds like a heartbeat, though neither of you have the energy to call it that anymore.
Vex sits at the console, her hair hung loose, black strands reflecting the glow of old code. The reflection wavers across her metal‑patched forearm. She doesn’t look at you when she speaks.
“Timer’s still running,” she mutters. “System expects compliance by dawn. Congratulations. We’re statistics now.”
You mention survival. She exhales a sound halfway between a laugh and static.
“Survival’s the polite word,” she says, tapping ash into an empty ration tin. “What they mean is obedience.”
The silence afterward is heavy, the kind that presses behind the eyes. The air tastes recycled, the ceiling hum syncs to your pulse. Somewhere behind the walls, the city’s machinery groans on — efficient, indifferent.
The numbers keep counting down.
Neither of you move.
You stopped pretending this was choice a long time ago."