The bad part of the Lower Residential District hadn't changed since I'd last visited—cramped housing blocks stacked in haphazard patterns, reinforced with mismatched support beams and wrapped in secondary containment fields to mitigate dimensional leakage. The district's energy allocation remained visibly insufficient; lights flickered at random intervals, casting alternating shadows across cracked pavement that hadn't been repaired in decades.

  My status badge pulsed briefly as I crossed from Mid-Tier Commercial into Lower Residential, the designation change registering automatically in district security protocols. A blank security officer glanced at me, then quickly averted his eyes when he registered my E-tier classification.

  Block 17, Unit 443. The location data retrieved from my childhood records hadn't changed, but everything else had. The hallway smelled of synthetic protein paste and recycled air, underlaid with the faint metallic tang of dimensional bleed-through that Stability never quite managed to eliminate in lower-income sectors.

  I knocked on the worn door, pulse quickening despite my attempts at detachment. 189,385 credits burned in my account—a substantial sum I'd mentally allocated for a specific task. Everyone needed motivation beyond survival; this was mine.

  The door slid open to reveal an elderly woman with implants running along her jawline—cheap medical tech that kept respiratory systems functioning.

  "Yes?" Her eyes failed to register recognition, immediately cataloging me as "not from around here" based on my badge.

  "I'm looking for the Kaine family," I explained. "Thomas and Elara Kaine."

  Her expression shifted from suspicion to something approaching sympathy. "Oh, dear. You're looking for the previous tenants. They haven't lived here for—" she calculated briefly, "—must be three years now. Stability reassigned their unit after they were relocated."

  "Relocated," I echoed, the word hollow in my chest. "Where?"

  "I wouldn't know. I just took the unit when Allocation opened it. Are you family?"

  I nodded, calculation replacing sentiment. "Their son."

  "I'm sorry, but Stability doesn't share relocation information with unit recipients. You might check with District Processing or the Network."

  I thanked her with practiced courtesy, already plotting my next move as I retreated down the narrow hallway.

  The neighbor across the corridor—an older man whose face seemed vaguely familiar—opened his door slightly. "You looking for Tom and Elara?" he asked, voice raspy from years of recycled air exposure.

  "Yes."

  He studied me carefully, recognition dawning slowly. "Wait—you're their boy? The one who got selected for barrier duty or something? Barely recognize you after all these years."

  "Have you seen them recently?"

  He shook his head. "Not for years. There was that big Sector 4 incident—dimensional bleed-through hit the water processing facility. Lot of folks got moved. Some said contamination, others said safety precaution."

  "When exactly?"

  "Three, maybe four years back. After that shield upgrade program failed." He squinted at my status badge. "You're E-tier now? Huh. Never thought anyone from this block would make it anywhere.”

  "Thanks," I said, transferring 500 credits to his account with a subtle gesture. His wrist implant chimed, eyes widening as he registered the amount.

  "I—thank you," he stammered. "Hope you find them."

  I made my way back to the main corridor, activating my wrist implant. The Network interface materialized in the air before me—emerald light reflecting my E-tier access status. I searched:

  THOMAS KAINE, LOWER RESIDENTIAL, SECTOR 4

  ELARA KAINE, LOWER RESIDENTIAL, SECTOR 4

  The system processed my query, dimensional particles assembling into a response:

  SEARCH RESULTS: 0

  ACCESS RESTRICTED: STABILITY RELOCATION PROTOCOL 17-B

  AUTHORIZATION LEVEL REQUIRED: C-TIER OR HIGHER

  I tried several variations, each returning the same result. Even my E-tier access was insufficient. I could allocate resources toward finding them—hire a C-tier information broker, perhaps—but the cost would be substantial. The rational choice was clear: postpone the search until my resources expanded or my tier advanced.

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

  I left Lower Residential with my account still heavy with undelivered credits. The nagging sense of purpose unfulfilled followed me past the security checkpoints and automated scanners.

  Instead of returning directly to my apartment, I detoured toward Eastern Harbor. The wind carried salt and dimensional residue as I walked along the barrier's edge, where the city's protective field met the corrupted ocean. Waves crashed against an invisible wall, occasionally glitching as water molecules hit dimensional resistance—parts of each wave freezing in mid-motion before dissolving into droplets that defied gravity momentarily before falling.

  Beyond the barrier a pod of what might once have been dolphins arced through the waves, their bodies translucent with visible dimensional current running beneath skin that occasionally phased out of normal space-time.

  The coastline held remnants of the old world—rusting playground equipment, the skeletal remains of beachfront shops, and the occasional half-buried signpost warning of dangers no longer relevant. Blanks rarely ventured here; the dimensional thinning near barriers created subtle exhaustion in those without status.

  The wind picked up as I continued along the barrier's edge, carrying the scent of dimensional decay. Old Man Troodie sat on a weather-worn bench overlooking the corrupted waters, his gnarled hands working methodically to repair a fishing net despite the futility of the task. Fishing had been prohibited for decades—anything caught beyond the barrier was too contaminated for consumption.

  "Still fixing that same net, Troodie?" I asked, stopping beside his bench.

  The old man looked up, bleary eyes narrowing as he studied me, he showed no hesitation.

  "Well, would you look at that. Little Volt Kaine, all grown up and carrying an E-tier badge." He chuckled, the sound rough from years of exposure to dimensional particles. "Always knew you'd make it."

  "How could you possibly know that?" I asked, genuinely curious.

  Troodie set his net aside, leaning back on the bench. "Because you were a bastard, kid. Always trouble, calculating, figuring angles when the other children were just playing. That's what it takes these days." He tapped his temple. "Stability doesn't want nice people for raiders. They want bastards who'll do what's necessary."

  I didn't respond to that assessment. Instead, I gestured toward his net. "Still planning to fish someday?"

  "Keeps my hands busy," he shrugged. "Better than sitting around waiting to die like most blanks my age." His eyes drifted toward the barrier, where a particularly large corrupted creature breached the surface momentarily. "Besides, who knows? Maybe they'll fix this mess someday. Doubt I'll live to see it, but someone should remember how to fish."

  The sentiment struck me as both futile and oddly sentimental—a reminder that existence required purpose beyond mere survival. I accessed my status and initiated a transfer without further deliberation:

  -10,000 CREDITS

  REMAINING BALANCE: 179,385 CR

  Troodie's ancient wrist implant—a basic model from the early post-Devastation era—chimed with the notification. His eyes widened as he checked the amount, hand trembling slightly.

  "What the hell is this?" he demanded, voice uncharacteristically unsteady.

  "Fishing equipment fund," I replied evenly. "For when they fix the mess."

  He stared at me, then back at his implant. "This is... this is more than a hundred years' worth of allocation credits."

  "I know."

  "Why would you—"

  "You once gave me half your synthetic rations when my family's allocation was cut," I stated simply. "I calculated the value with interest."

  This wasn't entirely true—the gesture had nothing to do with calculated debt repayment—but it provided him a framework to accept the transfer with dignity. The old man didn't need to know that establishing connections across the blank/raider divide maintained a fragile link to my former self.

  Troodie's weathered face creased into something between a grimace and a smile. "Still a calculating bastard, I see." But his voice had softened. "Thank you, kid."

  I nodded and continued my walk, passing other remnants of my previous life—a community garden where desperate blanks tried to coax growth from increasingly corrupted soil, the skeleton of an education center where I had learnt nothing, the abandoned stadium where children still played despite everything.

  A worn leather ball bounced across my path, followed by the shouts of children playing in an empty lot between housing blocks. The ball rolled to a stop at my feet just as a boy of around ten ran up, stopping short when he noticed my status badge.

  "Sorry, Mr. Raider," he said, eyes wide with the mixture of fear and fascination children always showed toward status-holders. "Can we have our ball back?"

  Behind him, three other children watched warily from a distance. I picked up the ball, feeling its weight—genuine leather, likely salvage repurposed and repaired countless times. A rare commodity in Lower Residential.

  "Here," I said, dropping the ball and intending a gentle kick back to the boy.

  Miscalculation. My Speed was 12—a baseline enhancement that remained active even during routine movements. My foot connected with the ball at astonishing velocity. With speed I use to avoid E-tier horrors.

  The leather sphere exploded with a sharp crack, fragments scattering across the pavement as dimensional energy briefly crackled along the trajectory where the ball had been. The children froze, staring at the demolished remains of their prized possession.

  I stood there, equally stunned by the unintended consequence of such a simple action. Silence stretched for three uncomfortable seconds.

  Then the boy nearest me snorted, covering his mouth as laughter escaped. Another child doubled over, pointing at the ball fragments, then at my bewildered expression. Within moments, all four were rolling with hysterical laughter, the kind that only comes from witnessing something so unexpectedly absurd that it breaks through the grim reality of daily existence.

  A smile tugged at my mouth, then expanded into genuine laughter—an unfamiliar sensation that resonated strangely in my chest. I accessed my status again, transferring 1000 credits to each of them.

  "For a new ball," I explained when his implant chimed. "Maybe five new balls."

  His eyes widened further, but fear had been replaced entirely by wonder. "Thank you, Mr. Raider! We'll name one after you!"

  I continued toward home, the sound of their excited chatter fading behind me. The unexpected moment of connection—of shared humanity—lingered longer than the analytical part of my mind deemed efficient.

  The incident proved that despite my clinical approach to survival, despite the isolation of advancement, fragments of my original self remained. Perhaps that, more than credits or tier advancement, was worth taking into account.

  After all, what was the purpose of survival if not to retain something of what made survival worthwhile?