[Afternoon. The heat is worse. The grinders are louder. Someone down the line collapses.]

  [The medics come. Not quickly-nothing is quick here unless profit demands it—but they come. The worker is carried out. The line keeps moving. The quota doesn’t change.]

  [The worker next to Avyanna—a man with a cough he’s had for months-stares after the medics.]

  Worker: [voice low] Third one this week.

  [Avyanna doesn’t respond. There’s nothing to say.]

  Worker: They’re not going to fix the vents. They’re never going to fix anything.

  [She keeps her eyes on the slurry line. Her hands keep moving. The quota doesn’t care about conversation.]

  Worker: What’s the point? What’s the point of any of this?

  [He’s looking at her. Waiting for something. Hope, maybe. Solidarity. Something human.]

  [Avyanna looks at the slurry line. The gold-colored dust. The machines that never stop.]

  Avyanna: [flat] Next shift.

  Worker: [bitter] That’s not a point. That’s a sentence.

  (Yes. That’s exactly what it is.)

  [A blockage at Station 12. Avyanna moves to clear it.]

  [The process is simple: isolate the section, reach into the mechanism, remove the obstruction. Don’t get pulled in. Don’t lose fingers. Don’t think about the people who’ve lost more.]

  [She works fast. Efficient. The obstruction is a chunk of ore that didn’t grind properly. She pulls it free. The line resumes.]

  [Something catches her eye. A mark on the ore chunk. A symbol-angular, strange. Not mining equipment. Not corporate branding. Something older. Something that makes her think of the deep cuts, the places they don’t let workers go anymore.]

  [She should report it. Anomalies get reported. Anomalies get investigated. Anomalies get people noticed.]

  [She puts the ore chunk back on the line. It disappears into the grinder. The symbol is gone.]

  (Didn’t see anything. Nothing to report.)

  [Supervisor Coil walks past. Stops. Looks at Avyanna’s station, then at the quota display.]

  Coil: [flat] Four-seven-seven. You’re at 102%.

  Avyanna: [not meeting her eyes] Yes.

  Coil: Keep it there. Don’t get ideas.

  Avyanna: [automatic] No ideas.

  [Coil moves on. Her footsteps fade into the grinding.]

  (Don’t stand out. Don’t be noticed. Don’t be anything except a number that meets quota.)

  (I’m good at that.)

  [End of shift. The siren screams again. The machines don’t stop-second shift takes over—but Avyanna’s body is released.]

  [Her muscles ache. Her lungs feel heavy. Her hands are gold-stained, and no amount of washing will get it all out.]

  [She walks to the hab stack. Slow. Conservation. Her tag vibrates against her neck.]

  WORKER 477 - SHIFT SUMMARY Quota: 347/340 (102%) Base Earnings: 400 ticks Tool Rental: -90 ticks Air Premium: -60 ticks Water Ration: -30 ticks Food Ration: -45 ticks Bunk Rental: -120 ticks Net: +55 ticks Balance Adjustment: -72 ticks (interest accrual, current rate: 0.015% daily, compounding) New Balance: 487,341 ticks (debt)

  (Fifty-five earned. Seventy-two interest. Net: negative seventeen.)

  (I worked eight hours. Met quota. Didn’t break anything. Didn’t get sick. Didn’t die.)

  (Still further behind than when I woke up.)

  [She tries the math anyway. She always tries the math. It’s a habit she can’t break, like scratching at a scab.]

  (If the interest stayed at seventy-two per day—but it doesn’t. The rate compounds. The rate changes. The rate goes up when you get close to zero, she’s heard. The rate adjusts to keep you where you are.)

  (Bram. Fifty years. How? How does anyone-)

  (Maybe he doesn’t pay for air. Maybe he doesn’t eat. Maybe he made a deal with something, traded something, found a way the company doesn’t know about.)

  (Or maybe he’s just a glitch. A number that didn’t round correctly. A mistake the system hasn’t noticed yet.)

  (Don’t think about Bram. Don’t think about escape velocity. There is no escape velocity. The math doesn’t allow it.)

  [The hab stack is quieter in the evening. Second shift is working. Third shift is sleeping. The ones off-duty are conserving-breath, motion, hope. Everything has a cost.]

  [Avyanna sits on her bunk. The space is 2 meters by 0.8 meters by 0.8 meters. Coffin-sized. Her whole life fits in this box. A blanket. A water ration she’s saving. A smooth stone she found in the Lower Works two years ago, before they banned her section from going that deep.]

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  [The stone is in her palm. Gray. Unremarkable. But-]

  [She stops. Looks at it. Feels it.]

  [It’s warm. Not hot—just warm. Warmer than it should be. Warmer than her hand, warmer than the bunk, warmer than anything in this cold metal box has any right to be.]

  (That’s wrong. Stones don’t warm themselves. Physics doesn’t work that way.)

  [She holds it tighter. The warmth spreads into her palm, into her fingers. Not unpleasant. Just… present. Like something inside is waiting.]

  (Put it away. Don’t think about it. Anomalies get reported. Anomalies get investigated. Anomalies get you noticed.)

  [She puts the stone back in her lockbox. Closes the lid. Tries not to think about how it felt. Tries not to notice that her hand still feels warm, even after she lets go.]

  [A voice from the bunk below.]

  Young Worker: Four-seven-seven?

  [Avyanna doesn’t answer at first. Numbers are all they have.]

  Young Worker: [persistent] I know you’re awake. I saw you at shift change.

  Avyanna: [flat] What.

  [The young worker climbs up to peer into Avyanna’s space. Young-maybe fourteen, eyes too big for her face. She’s wearing a charm on a string around her wrist, hidden under her sleeve. Contraband. Personal items get confiscated if they’re not in the lockbox. She’s risking ticks just by wearing it.]

  Young Worker: How do you do it?

  Avyanna: [not moving] Do what.

  Young Worker: Stay so… still. You never cry. You never yell. The rest of us, we- [she stops, swallows] -I can’t stop shaking sometimes. When the numbers come up and I’m further behind. When someone checks out or burns bright and no one says their name.

  [Avyanna looks at her. The charm on her wrist catches the dim light. A small metal shape. A star, maybe. Or a flower. Something from before.]

  Avyanna: What’s your name.

  Young Worker: [surprised] Mira. I’m- [she catches herself] -I’m four-eight-nine.

  Avyanna: What’s the charm.

  [Mira’s hand goes to her wrist. Protective. Afraid.]

  Mira: My sister made it. Before she… [she doesn’t finish] She was on Slurry 3. Last quarter.

  [Avyanna knows what “last quarter” means. Another number that stopped appearing in the count. Another bunk reassigned by end of shift.]

  Avyanna: [quiet] Keep it hidden.

  Mira: I know. I just- [she swallows again] -how do you stay so calm? How do you just… not feel it?

  (Do I? Do I feel anything anymore? When did I stop?)

  Avyanna: [turning away, looking at the ceiling of her pod] I don’t know. I stopped. At some point. It hurt less.

  Mira: Is that better?

  [Avyanna doesn’t answer. She’s not sure there is an answer. Not one that helps.]

  Mira: [after a long pause] My name is Mira.

  [She says it like it matters. Like names still mean something. Like being a person is still possible here.]

  [Avyanna closes her eyes.]

  Avyanna: [quiet] Go to sleep, Mira.

  [Mira climbs back down. The bunk creaks. Silence returns.]

  (Mira. Four-eight-nine. Sister on Slurry 3. Charm on her wrist.)

  (Don’t remember. Names cost. Caring costs.)

  (But she remembers anyway.)

  [Night cycle. The lights dim—not off, never off, they need to see you to count you—but dimmer. The hab stack settles into the sounds of sleep. Coughing. Breathing. The occasional muffled sob.]

  [Avyanna can’t sleep. The numbers run in her head. The math. Always the math.]

  (487,341 ticks. Interest compounds. Rate adjusts. The system is designed. The system is working.)

  (There’s no way out by working. The math doesn’t allow it. Bram is fifty, and he’s still here, and if he hasn’t escaped in thirty years-)

  (Thirty years. He’s been here thirty years. Longer than I’ve been alive.)

  (What was he, before? Did he have a name? Does he remember it?)

  (Will I be here in thirty years? Will I remember mine?)

  (What is my name?)

  [She stops. The question hits her like cold water.]

  (Avyanna. My name is Avyanna.)

  (When was the last time someone said it? When was the last time I thought it?)

  (Four-seven-seven. That’s what I am now. That’s what the system calls me. That’s what I answer to.)

  (But my name is Avyanna.)

  [She holds onto it. Just for a moment. A small rebellion that costs nothing. A word that belongs to her, before she was inventory.]

  [There’s a viewport at the end of the hab corridor. Small. Grimy. The plastic is scratched from years of workers pressing their faces against it, looking at something that isn’t here.]

  [Avyanna stands in front of it. Third hour of night cycle. She should be sleeping. Sleep is free. Sleep is the only thing that’s free.]

  [But sometimes she comes here. When the numbers get too loud. When the walls feel too close. When she needs to remember that there’s something else. Somewhere else.]

  [The stars are visible. Faint, through the grime, but there. Points of light in the black. Other places. Other lives.]

  [She traces a constellation with her finger. She doesn’t know its name. No one taught her. No one teaches anyone anything here unless it makes them more efficient.]

  (Out there. People live out there. Real people with real names. People who don’t count ticks. Who don’t get stamped for fitness. Who don’t watch their friends go thin and say nothing.)

  (Do they know about us? Do they care?)

  (Does anyone care?)

  [Her hand drifts to her neck. The tag is warm. Always warm. Tracking. Always tracking.]

  [The stars don’t answer. They never answer. They just burn, far away, indifferent to the girl pressing her palm against grimy plastic.]

  [Something shifts in her chest. Not pain—or not just pain. Something else. A weight. A pressure. Like something is waiting, just under the surface. Like the warmth of the stone, still lingering in her palm even though she put it away hours ago.]

  (What is that? What’s happening to me?)

  (Nothing. Nothing’s happening. Go to sleep. Sleep is free.)

  [She stays there until her legs ache. Until the cold of the floor seeps through her thin shoes. Until she’s too tired to stand.]

  [Then she walks back to her bunk. Lies down. Closes her eyes.]

  [The stone in her lockbox is warm. She can feel it, somehow, even through the metal. Waiting.]

  [Tomorrow is another shift. Another count. Another day of surviving until the next one.]

  [That’s all there is.]

  AURUM EXTRACTION LTD. - MORTALITY LOG (FORM 9-ECHO) Site: K-9 Date: [REDACTED] Deceased: Worker 431 (cause: respiratory failure, gold-lung complications), Worker 508 (cause: equipment proximity incident, Slurry 7) Debt Status: Transferred to next of kin (if applicable) per Contract Section 7.3(b) Bunk Reassignment: Complete Productivity Impact: Minimal. Shift coverage maintained within acceptable parameters. Note: Both workers performed within expectations until incident date. No anomalies reported.

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