Leo’s POV

I always knew I’d die broke. I didn’t think it would be from a power shutoff.

The notice on my door read: ENERGY TERMINATION IMMINENT.

I’d seen it coming. Choosing between night shifts at the recycling plant and attending my engineering classes for three months led to this. You can’t do both in a world where everything, even opportunity, costs energy credits.

“This is bullshit,” I muttered, stepping through the entryway into the Energy Administration sub-office, located deep in one of the dome’s older, grimier sectors where corroded metal plates patched sections of the conduit-laced walls.

An irritating electrical whine resonated from strained systems somewhere overhead, a constant reminder of the dome’s decay. This noise did little to mask the scuffed floor or the streaks of mold marring the metallic partitions. The cavernous space offered no privacy, just rows of dented metal counters separated by flimsy, stained privacy screens instead of proper offices.

The line stretched twenty people deep between these makeshift dividers, all shoulders slumped, faces etched with the same weary resignation.

Another day in Dome City Eight, where humanity cowers from what we created.

When my turn finally came, I stood before one of the identical counters. The administrator didn’t look up from her wavering holographic terminal. Her blond hair, drawn back tight, seemed almost too vibrant against the dull metal backdrop. There was a well-fed softness about her face and frame, a stark difference from the gaunt figures waiting in line behind me. Her uniform seemed newer, less strained at the seams, the look of someone whose position afforded comforts the rest of us couldn’t imagine.

“Identification.” Her voice was flat, bored.

I slid my worn ID card across the counter. My photo appeared on the display, grainy and a little outdated. Wavy brown hair, green eyes, a rounder face than I had now. I looked healthier four years ago. The freckles stood out more these days, likely due to a lack of nutrients. Too slender, a little short. Like I’d stopped growing before I was supposed to. “There’s been a mistake with my apartment. The termination notice—”

“No mistake.” Her fingers moved across the holographic display. “Unit 2187, Block D. Three months of minimum payments. Energy allocation reduced to emergency levels as of today, complete termination scheduled for tomorrow at noon.”

The display showed my balance: -1,750 credits. The monthly minimum was 600 credits for basic services, lighting, door operation, air filtration. Full service, including hot water, cooking elements, and entertainment access, would cost 2,000 credits. My engineering program cost 1,500 credits per month. The plant paid 800 credits for a standard shift, 1,600 for double shifts. The math was impossible.

“I work at the recycling plant. I’m a sorter,” I said, as if that explained everything. It should have. Sorters were essential, separating reusable materials from actual waste. Without us, the dome’s already strained resources would collapse entirely. “I had to choose between classes and shifts.”

Her tapping finger hovered over the holographic display, then stilled. A faint sigh escaped her lips before she met my eyes for a fraction of a second. “Look, I see this every day. You’re not the only one with this problem.”

“So what am I supposed to do?”

“Everyone has to choose something,” she replied. “You chose education over energy. The system doesn’t care why.”

“So I just lose my apartment access? I can’t even get inside?” My voice remained level. Tried anger once, years ago, over ration shortages. Ended with a warning slip and still hungry. It never changed the outcome.

“Emergency protocols allow door operation for 24 hours. After that, you’ll need to make arrangements.” She pushed my ID back. “Next.”

I walked out into the perpetual gray of afternoon, though you couldn’t tell the difference between morning, noon, or night anymore. The megacurtain blocked most sunlight, shrouding our world in dim murk. Recycled air hit the back of my throat, stale and tinged with metal, like rust and old blood. It coated my tongue and filled my nostrils while the city’s filtration systems pulsed with their low, constant thrum—the soundtrack of humanity’s failure.

It started with the resource wars, countries fighting over the last oil reserves, causing environmental catastrophes. Then came the ill-conceived “solutions.” Some genius scientists decided that since our dimension was running out of energy, they could harvest it from parallel realities.

The Dimensional Collider they built was supposed to safely extract power from other universes. Instead, it tore open massive rifts in reality—Dimensional Fractures.

We tore the veil. And something tore back.

The Nephilim.

That was seventy years ago. Long enough for three generations to forget what real freedom, real sunlight, and even real silence felt like.

The domes were humanity’s last bet. Scattered across what used to be North America, some near the coast and others buried deep inland, the domes were built to keep the monsters out and what was left of humanity in.

The three remaining fusion reactors and solar arrays struggle to generate enough power for the eight remaining domes. The other four domes were overrun. Twelve million dead. And for what? So we could huddle in darkness, rationing every watt, while those monstrosities roam outside.

My parents taught me to care once. Their caring didn’t save them. My caring wouldn’t save me.

A familiar tightness clenched in my chest, a hollow echo I hated. I forced my gaze down, focusing on the scuffed floor plates beneath my worn boots.

My phone buzzed with a shift notification. Plant Manager Torres asked if I could cover another night. Double pay. The timing was almost funny.

“Yes,” I typed back. Not that I had a choice.

A warning message appeared: “Battery at 8%. Connect to power source.” I swiped it away. The apartment’s charging ports were all dead. Another “non-essential” system, the Energy Administration, had shut down. Even if I went to a public charging station, it would cost me 50 credits for a full charge. Fifty credits I didn’t have.

***

The recycling plant sprawled beneath several residential blocks, with sections extending from Block A through F, a labyrinth of conveyor belts, sorting mechanisms, and workers. I worked in the section beneath Block C. I’d been here four years, since I turned eighteen and aged out of the orphan housing program. At twenty-two, I was already considered a veteran sorter. Torres had hired me because I didn’t talk much, didn’t complain, and showed up.

“Leo!” Torres called from his elevated platform. He was a large man with artificial lungs, a common upgrade for plant workers. “Damn, you’re early. Either you’re bored or broke.”

Both, but I didn’t answer. I nodded, hanging my jacket on the hook and grabbing my protective gear. The gloves were worn thin, but requesting new ones meant paperwork and questions.

“Listen,” Torres said, climbing down to my level. “Got you on e-line tonight. Chen swears he’s dying, but I’ve seen healthier corpses do more work. I need a brain on electronics tonight. Don’t make me regret trusting yours.”

Electronics sorting paid better. If I stay on this line, I could cover both my energy bill and classes next month. It was exactly what my electrical engineering program focused on, salvaging and repurposing old tech. I was only two semesters away from certification, which would let me move from sorting to actual repair work and double my income. “Fine.”

“Still a man of few words, huh?” Torres laughed, clapping my shoulder. “That’s why I like you. No drama.”

The shift began, and I lost myself in the monotony. Separate the copper. Salvage the rare earth elements. Discard the useless plastics.

My hands moved without conscious thought until they paused over a cracked casing. Inside, nestled amongst burnt wiring, was an intact Series 7 micro-gyroscope. Obsolete military tech, no doubt from a drone crash outside the walls, but the harmonic resonator within was still valuable if you knew how to bypass Admin regulations for. Worth fifty credits, easy. Enough for that phone charge I needed.

I eased it free with my fingertips and slipped it into my pocket before sweeping the rest of the worthless junk down the line.

The electronics line was more dangerous. Nephilim junk sometimes slipped through. Those creatures were bio-tech hybrids; bits of them stayed active, or just plain weird, after death. Found a shard last week, thick as my thumb. Looked like standard bio-casing, but where it had snapped off, the break wasn’t rough. It was smooth. Perfectly smooth, layered like cut metal, not shattered bone or chitin. Strange. Didn’t fit. Dumped it in hazardous. Another day, another piece of dangerous scrap Admin wouldn’t pay out for if it took your hand off.

Last month, a worker on second shift lost three fingers when a piece of Nephilim neural tissue encountered his bare skin during sorting. The tissue latched onto his living cells, causing rapid necrosis before they could amputate the affected area. The Administration denied his injury compensation claim, saying he should have identified the contamination and worn proper protection.

Six hours in, my phone died.

Maya noticed me checking it, her gaze sharp even after hours on the line. She slid her charger across the station, the cord snagging on a taped knuckle.

“Here,” she said. “You disappear, and I won’t be able to cover your shift or your ass.”

My shoulders tensed. An automatic refusal formed on my tongue, but I bit it back. Help was not offered often here, not without a catch. But this was Maya. Practicality won. I nodded, plugging the phone in. “Thanks.”

She gave a short nod back, turning her attention to the conveyor belt. A flash of electric pink hair, shaved close on one side, was a vivid slash of color against the dull metal and shadows. At twenty-four, two years older than me, she stood out against the grime and gray uniforms, piercings glinting along one ear. She was attractive, though not my type. My type involved broad shoulders and hard chests, not curves.

Not that it mattered. Relationships were another luxury I could not afford.

Even now, I could see the faint shadows under her eyes, and her shoulders carried the slight, familiar slump from too many hours standing. She’d been here even longer than me, since she was sixteen, learning early how to survive—especially with a younger brother in the med sector depending on every credit she earned—and how to spot someone else hanging on by a thread.

“No problem.” She did not look over, already sorting through a pile of burnt components. “Heard about your building. Block D’s having all kinds of issues.”

Misery always had the best grapevine. Everyone was scraping by, watching who fell next. The UV lamps in our sector had stopped working months ago. Those pale imitations of sunlight were supposed to prevent vitamin deficiencies, but only managed to bathe everything in a sickly blue glow. Administration said they’d fix them. They never did.

“It’s fine,” I said, turning back to my work.

“If you need a place to crash…”

The offer hung in the air. For a split second, the thought of a warm room that wasn’t my cold, dark apartment was tempting. A dangerous temptation.

Warmth was dangerous. Hope, worse.

I pictured the complications, the expectations, the potential for things to go wrong. Easier to cut it off now.

“I don’t.”

She backed off. Smart. Even with Maya, I kept barriers up. Caring too much always ended in attachment, and attachment was a weakness I couldn’t afford to have. If something happened to her, I’d probably worry, and I didn’t possess that kind of mental energy to spare. Nothing in the domes was free, especially not caring about people.