They say your ID number defines you. It’s the first thing they give you when you’re born and the last thing they erase when you’re gone. For most people, it’s just a string of digits, stamped on a card and clipped around their neck. For me, it’s a constant reminder: You don’t matter.


    I tugged at the badge hanging from my neck, the plastic digging into my skin as I stepped out of the apartment. District Nine always smelled the same—stale air and desperation. The streets were crowded, as usual, people rushing to jobs that barely paid enough to feed them. My father had left early, his uniform pressed and spotless, as if that would make a difference. He worked for the government, but not in the way that mattered.


    He was just another cog in their massive, merciless machine.


    I moved quickly, weaving through the crowd. It was market day, and that meant chaos. Vendors shouted over each other, trying to sell bruised vegetables and questionable cuts of meat. I kept my head down, avoiding eye contact with the enforcers stationed at every corner. Their black uniforms and mirrored visors made them look like faceless statues, but I knew better. They were watching. They were always watching.


    “Jose!”


    I turned, spotting Leo waving at me from his usual spot by the bakery stall. His grin was as bright as ever, despite the dark circles under his eyes. Leo always had a way of looking like he hadn’t slept in days but somehow didn’t care.


    “You’re late,” he said, falling into step beside me.


    “You’re early,” I shot back, brushing a stray strand of hair out of my face.


    He smirked. “I like to make sure I get the freshest bread.”


    I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, because this place is known for its quality.”


    We walked together toward the square, the noise of the market fading into the background. Leo was one of the few people I trusted in this city, even if he had a habit of getting us into trouble. He had a quick wit and a knack for talking his way out of bad situations—qualities that came in handy when you lived in a place like this.


    “Did you hear?” he asked, his voice dropping to a whisper.


    “Hear what?”


    “They caught someone trying to cross the barrier last night. A guy from District Seven.”


    My stomach tightened. The barrier. The invisible line that separated us from the other districts, from the wealth and privilege of District One. No one crossed it without permission, and anyone who tried usually disappeared.


    “What happened to him?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.


    Leo shrugged, his expression turning grim. “Same thing that always happens. They erased him.”


    Erased. That’s what they called it. A neat little word to cover up the brutality. Once someone was erased, it was like they never existed. Their ID number was deleted from the system, their name scrubbed from the records. Even their families were ordered to forget them.


    The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.


    I swallowed hard, the familiar knot of anger and fear tightening in my chest.


    “Why do they do it?” I asked, not really expecting an answer.


    “To keep us in line,” Leo said, his voice quieter now. “They want us to be afraid. It’s easier to control people when they’re afraid.”


    <hr>


    The square was already packed when we arrived. The giant screens that lined the buildings were broadcasting the daily propaganda—images of smiling families, clean streets, and endless rows of obedient citizens. It was a joke, really. None of it looked anything like District Nine.


    I spotted my friend Mia near the fountain, her arms crossed as she scanned the crowd. She was smaller than me, with sharp eyes and a no-nonsense attitude that I admired.


    “Took you long enough,” she said as we approached.


    “Blame Leo,” I replied.


    Mia raised an eyebrow. “He’s your problem, not mine.”


    Leo grinned. “You wound me, Mia.”


    “Good,” she shot back, but there was a hint of a smile on her lips.


    Before we could say anything else, the loudspeakers crackled to life, and the crowd fell silent. The screens switched to a single image: the Director. His face was smooth and ageless, his dark eyes staring directly into the camera as if he could see each and every one of us.


    “Citizens,” his voice boomed, cold and precise. “Today, we celebrate the strength of our unity. The order of our society. The sacrifices we make for the greater good.”


    I clenched my fists, the familiar rage bubbling under my skin. It was always the same speech, the same lies.


    “Remember,” the Director continued, “obedience is the foundation of our prosperity. Those who stray from the path threaten everything we have built. They will be dealt with accordingly.”


    The crowd remained silent, heads bowed in submission. I glanced at Leo, whose jaw was tight, his hands shoved into his pockets. Mia’s face was unreadable, but I could see the tension in her posture.


    I wanted to scream, to shout that this wasn’t unity, this wasn’t prosperity. It was a cage, and we were all trapped inside it. But I kept my mouth shut. Speaking out wasn’t bravery—it was suicide.


    <hr>


    As the speech ended, the crowd began to disperse. But before we could leave, a sharp whistle cut through the air. The enforcers moved quickly, surrounding a man near the edge of the square.


    “What’s going on?” I whispered to Mia.


    “Looks like someone’s in trouble,” she replied, her voice low.


    The man was struggling, his ID badge ripped from his neck and lying on the ground. The enforcers forced him to his knees, their weapons drawn.


    “Please!” the man shouted. “I didn’t do anything!”


    But his protests fell on deaf ears. One of the enforcers raised their weapon, and the man’s pleas turned to screams.


    I turned away, my heart pounding.


    “Let’s go,” Leo muttered, grabbing my arm.


    We hurried away from the square, the man’s screams echoing in my ears long after they stopped.


    <hr>


    That night, I lay awake in my tiny room, staring at the cracked ceiling. My ID badge sat on the table next to me, its numbers glowing faintly in the dark.


    I couldn’t stop thinking about the man in the square. What had he done to deserve that? Or maybe the better question was, what hadn’t he done?


    The rules were everywhere, written and unwritten, changing on a whim. No one could keep track of them all. And that was the point. It didn’t matter if you followed the rules—they would always find a reason to punish you.


    I reached for the badge, my fingers brushing against the cool plastic. For the first time in my life, I wondered what it would feel like to be free of it.


    But freedom was a dangerous word. And in District Nine, danger always led to one thing: erasure.