Chapter 1. Morning Package
Nika woke to someone else’s pain.
Her own was easy to recognize: dull, familiar, carrying the aftertaste of cheap painkillers and sleep-starved rage. Her pain lived in her left shoulder, beneath her ribs, inside the jaw she clenched every night as though she could bite clean through her contract.
This one wasn’t hers.
It was expensive.
Premium fear always smelled of mint. Not real mint—the sterile kind that lingered after private dentists, white marble bathrooms, and people who never washed their own coffee cups because that was what the Lower Level was for.
Nika opened her eyes.
The ceiling above her bed flickered into a gray interface.
PAIN SHARE CONTRACT: MORNING PACKAGE CLIENT: PRIVATE EDEN / ORCHID LEVEL STATUS: PANIC ATTACK TRANSFER — 17%
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she rasped into the dark.
The dark, as usual, declined to comment.
Someone else’s panic unfolded inside her chest. Neat. Well maintained. Expensive around the edges. Somewhere above, a man had woken up, panicked at the sound of his own heartbeat, tapped a service icon—and now Nika had to breathe for him.
She pushed herself upright.
Her fingers refused to cooperate. Reaching for the glass on the floor with her right hand, she knocked it over instead and swore louder this time. Water ran beneath the mattress.
Wonderful.
The day was off to a promising start: borrowed hysteria, wet socks, and a zero-percent chance of hazard pay.
The interface blinked.
PLEASE REMAIN CALM. YOUR EMOTIONAL STATE AFFECTS SERVICE QUALITY.
“Tell the client his service quality is affecting my will to live.”
No response.
The panic jumped to thirty-one percent.
Nika dragged in a breath and dug her nails into her palm.
Pain.
Good.
Her own pain was like a handrail inside a train hurtling off a cliff. It wouldn’t save her, but it gave her the illusion that she was still holding on.
“Breathe, rich boy,” she whispered. “In. Out. You’re not going to die from your own heart. Unfortunately, it’s still under warranty.”
On the third exhale, something clicked inside the wall.
Not inside the room.
Deeper.
Inside the system.
The interface twitched, as though someone on the other side had dragged a dirty finger across it.
PAIN SHARE CONTRACT: SYNCHRONIZATION ERROR PAIN SOURCE: UNIDENTIFIED THIRD-PARTY SIGNAL: —
The final line froze.
So did Nika.
There were no third-party signals. Not on the Lower Level. Not inside morning packages. And definitely not inside Orchid contracts, where even someone else’s terror arrived wrapped in legal protection.
The line blinked again.
DON’T LET THEM TAKE YOUR EYES.
Nika stopped breathing.
The message vanished.
In its place, new words appeared across the gray ceiling—crooked and jagged, as though they hadn’t been typed in code but scratched there with fingernails.
THE FREE ZONE SEES YOU.
Nika climbed out of bed as carefully as if the floor might report her.
Which, technically, it could.
On the Lower Level, the walls reported you. So did the pipes, mattresses, ancient coffee dispensers, and even mirrors if you stared into them too long. The system liked to call it an intelligent support environment.
Nika had a simpler name for it.
A peeping tom with a budget.
The message dissolved. The gray interface returned, tidy and indifferent as a receptionist handling her third complaint of the morning.
PAIN SHARE CONTRACT: SESSION RESUMED CLIENT PANIC ATTACK: 44% RECOMMENDATION: ASSUME A HORIZONTAL POSITION
“Sure. Should I make tea and die tastefully while I’m at it?”
She stepped into the puddle, grimaced, then immediately got angry with herself for caring about something so ordinary. There was still someone else’s heart hammering inside her chest.
It beat broadly, indulgently, terrified with the horror of a man who had just discovered that his body was not a subscription he could cancel in the settings.
Nika made it to the sink.
The mirror activated on its own.
“Good morning, Nika,” said a gentle female voice. “Your current emotional profile is unstable.”
Her reflection stared back at her: dark circles, tangled hair, a narrow face wearing the expression operators classified as low customer orientation.
“Really? I thought this was just my natural beauty.”
“Sarcasm has been recorded as a defensive response.”
“Give sarcasm my regards.”
The mirror dimmed briefly.
Nika leaned over the sink and splashed water onto her face. Cold. Rusty. Real.
She liked things like that. Water that smelled of metal. Bruises that didn’t try to become metaphors. Pain that hadn’t arrived on someone else’s account.
Something sliced through her temple.
And the bathroom disappeared.
A white room.
Large.
Too clean.
A man in silk pajamas sat on the floor beside his bed, clutching his chest. Two domestic medical drones circled him, as careful as servants hovering near an expensive vase. The Private Eden logo glowed on the wall.
“I don’t want to feel this,” the man whispered. “Take it away. Take it away now.”
His voice was thin. Almost childlike.
Nika felt her mouth twitch.
“Poor thing,” she murmured in her own bathroom. “Turns out you have a heart. Surprise of the year.”
The man in the white suite suddenly raised his head.
And looked directly at her.
Not through her.
At her.
Nika recoiled from the mirror.
The image vanished.
Only her own frightened mouth remained on the glass—and a new line appearing over her reflection in uneven black letters.
HE CAN SEE YOU TOO.
“Who is ‘he’?” Nika whispered.
The mirror answered in its standard tone.
“Your request is invalid. Please clarify the service parameters.”
Nika slowly wiped her face with her sleeve. Her hand was shaking. She hated it when her body betrayed her before her brain had time to invent a decent lie.
Someone knocked on the door.
Three short taps.
Not system-generated.
Human.
“Nika,” a man said from the other side. “Open the door.”
She stared at the lock.
People came to the Lower Level for only two reasons: to collect an old debt or attach a new one.
“I’m asleep,” she said.
“You’re standing beside the door.”
“I’m a very talented sleeper.”
A pause.
Then his voice dropped.
“Your morning contract just lit up inside Orchid’s restricted network. It isn’t the client watching you.”
Nika stopped breathing.
“Then who is?”
Someone exhaled heavily outside.
“The one EdenWorks officially wrote off as dead code.”
Nika did not open the door.
She wasn’t stupid. Exhausted—yes. Permanently on edge—absolutely. Partially broken—depending on the service plan.
But not stupid.
“Give me the shift code,” she said.
Silence.
Long.
Bad.
Then the man swore under his breath.
“Nika, this isn’t the time.”
“Oh, wonderful. Everyone’s favorite line when they show up unannounced, without a shift code, carrying news that usually ends with someone dead.”
“I’m with Technical Monitoring.”
“And I’m with the ballet. Very classified program.”
The panic inside her chest jerked again. The client above had apparently decided he was dying for a second time. Nika gripped the edge of the sink and swallowed the attack like a burning coin.
Don’t scream.
Don’t fall.
Don’t let the system record low asset resilience.
“You’re exposed right now,” the man said through the door. “If I leave, Audit will take you.”
Nika laughed.
The sound came out short, ugly, and not remotely amused.
“Audit takes me every Thursday. We’re practically dating.”
“Not this kind of audit.”
The mirror behind her flickered.
DON’T OPEN THE DOOR.
Nika went cold.
The line vanished.
Another appeared immediately.
OPEN IT.
“Oh, perfect,” she whispered. “Now I’ve got democracy in the bathroom.”
The man knocked again, more quietly this time.
“I know you can see the messages.”
Nika slowly turned toward the door.
“How?”
“Because some of them are coming through my channel.”
“And the others?”
A pause.
“Not through mine.”
She pressed her tongue against the roof of her mouth to stop herself from saying the first thing that came to mind.
The first was obscene.
The second was panicked.
The third was painfully childish.
I don’t want this.
A stupid sentence.
Desire wasn’t recognized on the Lower Level. You could sell yours on the Human Collateral Market, if you were lucky and it was still worth anything.
Nika approached the door.
The lock watched her with a small red eye.
“Name,” she said.
“Tarr.”
“That isn’t a name. That’s the sound an elevator makes before it dies.”
“My parents didn’t choose it.”
“My condolences to the elevator.”
A quiet snort came from the other side.
Human.
Unexpectedly human.
And that was what she disliked most.
Human was always more dangerous than official. Official came with instructions, stamps, and limited imagination.
Human could betray you without warning.
Nika pressed her palm to the sensor.
The lock scanned her skin.
PAIN SHARE ASSET N-17. ACCESS RESTRICTED. YOU ARE NOT AUTHORIZED TO OPEN YOUR RESIDENTIAL MODULE DURING AN ACTIVE SESSION.
“Of course,” Nika said. “I might accidentally leave my apartment and ruin someone’s fear.”
Tarr’s voice sharpened.
“Step back.”
“What?”
“Get away from the door.”
She took half a step back.
Too late.
The lock flashed white.
It didn’t explode. Private Eden disliked unattractive explosions on the Lower Level. They looked bad in annual reports.
Instead, the mechanism made a soft click, like someone snapping the neck of a very small mechanical bird.
The door opened.
A thin man stood in the doorway wearing the gray jacket of technical staff. Unshaven. Dark-eyed. He had the exhausted look of someone who hadn’t slept in a long time and had finally stopped pretending sleep would solve anything.
He held a signal jammer in one hand.
Old.
Illegal.
Real.
Nika looked at the device, then at him.
“You’re either a rescuer or a badly disguised death sentence.”
“Depends how quickly you put your shoes on.”
“My socks are wet.”
“That is currently the least of your problems.”
“I hate people who don’t respect the scale of tragedy.”
Tarr tossed her a black wristband.
Nika caught it automatically—and regretted it at once.
It was warm.
Not from his hand.
From the code.
Something inside it pulsed unevenly, like a foreign heart wrapped in plastic.
“Put it on,” Tarr said.
“What is it?”
“A temporary blind spot.”
Nika looked up at him.
“For whom?”
Tarr stared past her, toward the mirror.
The glass darkened again.
A third message appeared.
DON’T LET THEM CALL IT RESCUE.
Tarr went pale.
Only slightly.
But Nika saw it.
And that was enough for the fear inside her to finally become her own.
“For everyone,” he said. “The client. Audit. Me. And possibly whatever is pretending to be Nazar right now.”
Nika did not put on the wristband.
She held it between two fingers like a dead insect someone was insisting on calling a gift.
“‘Pretending to be Nazar,’” she repeated. “Was that supposed to calm me down?”
“No.”
“Thank you for your honesty. Rare service. Haven’t they monetized it yet?”
Tarr didn’t answer.
He stepped inside, closed the door, and ran the jammer along the lock seam. The sensor’s red eye went dark.
The room immediately became quieter.
Not to the ears.
To the skin.
As though someone had finally stopped breathing down the back of her neck.
Nika felt the relief and hated herself for it.
“You have thirty seconds,” Tarr said. “Then the system realizes the module isn’t responding correctly.”
“How is a module supposed to respond? Politely? With gratitude for the exploitation?”
“Usually with your neurological readings.”
Nika fell silent.
That was worse than rudeness.
It was the truth, delivered without ceremony.
On the Lower Level, people didn’t scream at truths like that. They swallowed them. If you screamed at every one, you’d be out of voice before lunch.
She yanked on a jacket over her sleep shirt, found her other boot beneath the bed, and shook an empty stimulant capsule out of it.
“Not mine,” she said automatically.
“I didn’t ask.”
“Then don’t start. This is a civilized escape.”
The client’s panic was still lodged inside her chest, but it had become duller, muted by the wristband even without direct contact. The device warmed in her hand.
Nika stared at it.
“If this thing cuts into my skin, explodes, or starts playing the EdenWorks anthem, I’m biting you.”
“It’ll only hide you for seven minutes.”
“Only? Seven minutes? Have you ever heard what bad decisions sound like before someone dies?”
Tarr finally looked her in the eye.
“I have. They sound like, ‘I’m staying here.’”
Nika opened her mouth with something sharp ready.
She never got to say it.
The corridor woke up.
First came a soft chime, almost pleasant. Then the same woman’s voice from the mirror, except now it came from everywhere—ventilation, ceiling panels, even the roots of her teeth.
“Dear Lower Level assets, please remain calm. A scheduled inspection of residential modules is currently in progress. Your cooperation is part of our commitment to the quality of your experience.”
Nika rolled her eyes.
“Scheduled. At six in the morning. With signal jammers and dead code. Adorable.”
Tarr grabbed her wrist.
Nika slapped his hand away immediately.
Not hard.
Fast.
Reflex.
Being touched during Pain Share could drag anything across the connection: someone else’s pain, someone else’s command, someone else’s memory, someone else’s disgust with themselves.
Tarr released her.
“Sorry.”
The word was so out of place that Nika faltered.
People didn’t apologize for touching you on the Lower Level.
At best, they said, Stop moving. This will be faster.
“Don’t do that,” she said more quietly.
“All right.”
That was strange too.
He didn’t argue. Didn’t explain that he was in a hurry. Didn’t make her responsible for what his hand had done.
Nika fastened the wristband.
Cold.
Then silence.
Not complete silence. Complete silence existed only inside dead zones, and EdenWorks never left dead zones unguarded.
But the borrowed panic vanished from her chest so abruptly that Nika nearly collapsed.
She caught herself against the wall.
“Oh…”
“Side effect,” Tarr said. “When they cut you off from other people’s pain, your body remembers it has some of its own.”
“Tell my body it could stand to be more modest.”
The door opened for the second time.
The Lower Level corridor glowed dirty yellow. Cables ran along the walls like veins someone had forgotten to bury beneath skin. Service arrows flickered across the floor.
ASSETS MUST REMAIN INSIDE THEIR MODULES. YOUR SAFETY IS OUR PRIORITY. NONCOMPLIANCE CONSTITUTES VOLUNTARY WAIVER OF SOCIAL PROTECTION.
Nika read the message and snorted.
“I love it when concern sounds like a threat.”
Two white figures appeared at the end of the corridor.
Not security.
Worse.
Auditors.
They moved without urgency, wearing smooth, faceless masks and uniforms far too clean for the Lower Level. Each carried a slim silver case.
Cases like those didn’t hold weapons.
They held signatures, authorizations, and instruments that allowed a person to legally agree to stop being themselves.
Tarr spoke under his breath.
“Don’t look them in the eyes.”
“They don’t have eyes.”
“Exactly.”
The wristband heated around Nika’s arm.
Letters appeared on the inside of her wrist.
Not on a screen.
Not in the air.
Directly beneath her skin.
LEFT. WASTE CHANNEL. NOW.
Nika showed Tarr her wrist.
“Is this yours?”
He went properly pale this time.
“No.”
The auditors turned their heads in perfect unison.
As though they hadn’t heard the words.
Only the fear beneath them.
“Left,” Tarr said.
“I can read my own skin, thanks.”
“Then run.”
Nika ran.
Her wet boot squelched with every step, and the absurdity of it almost made her laugh. Fleeing auditors, foreign code beneath her skin, maybe-Nazar in the channel, maybe-a-trap inside the wristband—and one wet sock as final proof that the universe had no sense of proportion.
Behind them, the corridor spoke in a voice stripped of emotion.
“Asset N-17, stop. Your current route does not correspond to the recommended safety trajectory.”
“My trajectory rarely corresponds to anything!”
Tarr ran beside her, breathing hard but moving fast.
Too fast for a technician.
Nika noticed and filed it away in the part of her brain labeled:
Suspicious. Investigate if alive.
The auditors didn’t run.
That was the worst part.
They simply walked after them, and the corridor adjusted to their pace. Doors ahead sealed shut. Floor arrows went dark. Wall-mounted cameras rotated. Ventilation grilles closed behind thin membranes.
The system wasn’t in a hurry.
The system knew everything still belonged to it.
“Here.” Tarr slammed his palm against a technical panel.
It didn’t open.
It flashed red with impeccable courtesy.
ACCESS DENIED. WASTE CHANNEL TEMPORARILY UNAVAILABLE FOR HYGIENIC REASONS.
Nika stared at the message, breathless.
“Hygienic reasons? Seriously? They want us to die clean?”
Tarr pulled out the jammer and pressed it to the panel.
Nothing.
The letters beneath Nika’s skin flared with pain.
NOT THE PANEL. LOWER.
“Lower!” she shouted.
“What?”
Nika dropped to her knees and felt beneath the panel until her fingers found an old mechanical hatch. They hadn’t installed those in years.
EdenWorks disliked mechanical systems.
Terms of service couldn’t rewrite them.
The hatch stuck.
Of course it did.
“Help me, Elevator Noise!”
“My name is Tarr.”
“Help me, Tarr, before I put your name in the obituary.”
He crouched beside her and jammed a screwdriver into the seam.
The metal groaned.
Behind them, the woman’s voice softened.
“Asset N-17, we are detecting signs of disorientation. Please allow our specialists to restore your sense of control.”
Nika pulled at the hatch.
“My sense of control just ripped off a nail.”
The hatch finally gave way.
Warm dust, old plastic, and something sour rose from below. The waste channel was narrow and black, its walls webbed with cables.
It looked like a throat that had not been allowed to scream in a very long time.
Tarr lowered the jammer into the darkness first.
“I’m going down. You follow.”
“No, I think I’ll stay and discuss the loyalty program with the auditors.”
He looked at her.
“Nika.”
Not an order.
Not a shout.
That threw her off balance again.
She climbed into the hatch.
The metal scraped skin from her elbow immediately. Nika clenched her teeth.
Her own pain returned sharp and almost joyful.
She hated herself for the joy.
White boots appeared beside the open hatch.
“Asset N-17,” one of the auditors said.
The voice was male.
Young.
Almost pleasant.
The sort of voice that could read bedtime stories to children on the Orchid Level, assuming children there were permitted stories without a license.
“Your contract requires voluntary cooperation.”
Nika froze halfway into the shaft.
For one second, she almost laughed.
Then she became afraid.
Because she had signed.
Once.
Not this contract. Not like this. Not with full understanding.
But the system had her signature.
Her voice.
Her consent.
Her yes, spoken after three days without sleep, when her mother needed medical access and Nika had been offered a choice between debt and burial.
Voluntary cooperation.
Pretty words always left enough room to hide a knife.
“Don’t listen,” Tarr said quietly from below.
“Too late,” Nika whispered.
The auditor leaned closer.
His smooth mask had no face, but Nika suddenly saw her own reflection in it.
Pale.
Angry.
Afraid.
“We can remove the pain,” the auditor said. “All of it. Permanently. You will never have to be a container again.”
That struck harder than a threat.
Nika hated pain.
Not beautifully.
Not heroically.
She hated it until she felt sick, until darkness crowded her vision, until she sometimes wished she could simply fail to wake for the next morning package.
And when someone said, We can take it away, her body wanted to believe before her brain could spit in their face.
A new line appeared beneath the wristband.
THEY DON’T REMOVE IT. THEY TRANSFER IT.
Nika stared at the words.
Then at the auditor.
“Who do you give it to?” she asked.
The pause was tiny.
Almost imperceptible.
But it was there.
And that was enough.
Nika smiled.
Crookedly.
Without amusement.
“Tell the Care Department they need to work on their pauses.”
Then she dropped.
Tarr caught her badly.
They both crashed to the bottom of the channel in a tangle of dust, cables, and old packing strips printed with the EdenWorks logo.
The hatch began to close above them.
Before the darkness sealed it shut, Nika saw the auditor reach down.
Not for her.
For the wristband.
And when he spoke again, the service tone was gone.
“She was never supposed to receive it.”
The hatch clicked shut.
Darkness swallowed the corridor.
And somewhere inside that darkness, someone laughed softly.
Not Tarr.
Not Nika.
The voice came through the cables around them—hoarse, damaged, almost human.
“Wet socks? Seriously?”
Nika went still.
Tarr whispered:
“Nazar.”
