Why now? No this can’t be happening. Why Now?! I can’t stop running. Out of fear I run as fast as I can. Trying to see my surroundings, but all I hear is men yelling and stomping their feet on the ground, snapping the twigs with faint lanterns far but noticeable behind me…how do I escape?


    The air in Sector D has a way of clinging to your skin. It smells of rust and sweat, mixed with the faint acrid tang of burning fuel. I walk fast, keeping my head down, just another number in a world where individuality gets you erased. #70341, that’s me. Or, at least, that’s who I have to be.


    The government keeps us all in line with rules. Rules you don’t break unless you want to disappear. Rule #1: Never speak out against the government. Every word, every whisper, every glance can be used against you. They’re always watching, always listening. Rule #2: Take your daily supplements. They’re mandatory, distributed at checkpoints every morning. The pills are supposed to keep us healthy, but I’ve heard whispers they do something else—something to your mind. I don’t ask questions. Rule #3: Do not leave your designated sector. The borders are heavily guarded, the perimeter marked by towering walls and sentry drones. People who try to escape don’t just vanish—they’re erased. Wiped from the records like they never existed.


    There are more, of course, but these are the ones etched into my memory, the ones that dictate every move I make. It’s easier to obey than to think about what might happen if I didn’t. As I approach the security checkpoint, my chest tightens. This part always makes me nervous, even though I’ve done nothing wrong. The guards don’t need a reason to pull you aside. They just need an excuse.


    "Identification number, please."


    The Overseer’s voice is cold, detached, like it comes from somewhere deep inside the visor covering his face. I step forward, keeping my movements slow and deliberate.


    "#70341," I say, my voice steady even though my palms are slick with sweat.


    He scans me, his mechanical eye flickering as the screen in front of him lights up. My number appears in glowing white text, and for a moment, I hold my breath. The seconds stretch on, each one heavier than the last.


    Finally, he nods. "Proceed."


    I exhale, forcing my feet to move as I pass through the gate. But the feeling doesn’t leave. The sense that someone’s watching me, waiting for me to slip up. The streets beyond the checkpoint are crowded, people shuffling to and from their assignments. Factories, sanitation, distribution centers—every person here has a role, a purpose, assigned by the government. There’s no room for individuality, no room for dreams or desires. You work, you obey, and you survive.


    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    But lately, surviving hasn’t felt like enough.


    <hr>


    By the time I reach my apartment, the shadows have started to stretch long across the city. My building is one of many, a gray slab of concrete stacked with rows of identical units. Inside, it’s cramped and bare, just a bed, a table, and a chair. But it’s mine. For now. I sink onto the bed, pulling my boots off and staring at the scuffed floor. My mind is still racing, replaying the moment at the checkpoint, the hesitation in the Overseer’s scan. It wasn’t the first time. Lately, it feels like I’ve been walking a tighter line, like the walls are closing in. I hear a knock at the door and freeze. No one visits me. Ever.


    "Jose." The voice is low, familiar. I relax slightly as I recognize it. Leo.


    I open the door to find him leaning against the frame, his usual crooked grin in place. He’s carrying a small bundle wrapped in cloth—his idea of dinner. "Thought you might be hungry," he says, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.


    "Thanks," I mutter, closing the door behind him. Leo’s been my best friend for years, one of the only people I trust in this city. He’s easy to talk to, always finding a way to lighten the mood, even when things feel hopeless.


    "Rough day?" he asks, setting the bundle on the table and pulling out two stale rolls of bread. "Or just the usual soul-crushing monotony?"


    I can’t help but smile faintly. "The usual. Checkpoints. Scans. Overseers staring you down like they’re waiting for an excuse to haul you away."


    "Sounds about right." He breaks one of the rolls in half and hands me a piece. "But hey, at least you’re still here. That’s something."


    I nod, but the unease in my chest doesn’t fade. "Have you ever wondered…" I trail off, unsure if I should even say it.


    Leo raises an eyebrow. "Wondered what?"


    "What’s outside the walls?" The words feel dangerous, even in the safety of my tiny apartment. "I mean, really outside. Not just the other sectors, but beyond the borders. Beyond the city."


    He stiffens slightly, his expression growing serious. "Don’t go there, Jose. You know the rules."


    "Yeah," I say quickly, brushing it off. "Forget I said anything."


    But I can’t forget. Not really. The thought’s been gnawing at me for weeks now, ever since I overheard a worker in the factory whispering about the borders. He was gone the next day, his station empty. No one mentioned his name again.


    <hr>


    Later that night, I lie awake in the dark, staring at the ceiling. The room feels too quiet, too small. My thoughts keep circling back to the same place, no matter how hard I try to push them away. Xavier’s face flashes in my mind, his smirk, the way he looked at me like he knew something I didn’t. His words echo in my ears: You’re asking too many questions.


    Maybe he’s right. Maybe I’ve been asking questions I shouldn’t. But I can’t stop. Not now. Not when it feels like there’s something just out of reach, something I’m not supposed to know.


    And then there are the rules. The rules that keep us in line, keep us obedient. I’ve followed them my entire life, but lately, they feel less like protection and more like a cage.


    Rule #4: Do not question the rules.


    My father’s voice echoes in my memory, sharp and cold. He used to say that all the time, back when I was a child. Back before he became one of them. I haven’t spoken to him in years. Not since he joined the Overseers, trading his soul for a badge and a number. I turn over, closing my eyes and willing the thoughts to fade. But deep down, I know I won’t sleep tonight. Not with all these questions buzzing in my mind, unanswered and dangerous.