The ash on the tip of his cigarette was getting dangerously long, but he didn't bother to flick it. He just sat there, small-framed and swallowed up by a faded canvas jacket that made him look like a kid wearing his older brother's clothes.
He was twenty-five, maybe twenty-six, with deep brown skin that looked dull under the flickering fluorescent light of the 24-hour diner. But it was his eyes that gave him away. They were bloodshot and rimmed with a heavy, bruised violet darkness—the kind of permanent shadows that only months of frantic, uninterrupted insomnia can carve into a face. He looked like a man who had forgotten what a dream felt like.
"Nice. Nothing beats a cigarette while winng on betting in the middle of the night alone."
TING!!
"Who on Earth is texting at this hour... Sigh."
'Ed, Send me the money, NOW.'
"Those assholes. Do they have eyes everywhere? Fuck. I'll just pretend I didn't see it and go to sleep. Fuck them."
My name's Ed—Edgar de Lankt. Sounds cool, doesn't it? In an environment this harsh, the only good thing I inherited was a family name. Having one means you're entitled to at least a basic education. Don't ask me about the ones who don't have a family name; the majority of them end up as thugs or breaking their backs on farms. These days, you even need a family name just as collateral to rent public housing.
This reality didn't happen by accident.
It started two thousand years ago, during the Great War. Nuclear weapons were unleashed across the globe. Within ten years of the first strike, every nuclear-capable nation had launched its best arsenal at their respective enemies. With advanced technology, some missiles vaporized capitals instantly. Others were intercepted mid-air, while some missed entirely due to guidance errors or jamming, obliterating random targets instead.
You might think the powerhouse nations with the largest stockpiles won the war. They didn't.
While the superpowers could easily erase a capital city, the weaker nations knew they couldn't compete with raw, heavy artillery. Instead, they adapted, finding a way to shrink nuclear warheads to the size of a bullet. The war became erratic; death could come from anywhere, at any time.
After fifty years of constant warfare and broken truces, nothing was left for humanity. Every major city was reduced to unpopulated debris. Starvation was rampant. The political leaders who established the old rules were systematically assassinated by an anti-war coalition. It was absolute, pure chaos.
Eventually, this global anti-war organization hunted down and executed anyone guilty of nuclear war crimes. The remaining population rejoiced, thinking this hellish world was finally turning a corner.
They were wrong.
Just a week later, reports arrived from the north: the sun hadn't risen in seven days. A mass migration toward tropical lands began immediately, but it was futile. The winter had arrived anyway.
It was the Winter that everyone feared—the exact catastrophe scientists had warned about when the initial war broke out. Twenty-one days. That was all it took for the sun to completely vanish after those first northern reports. Ninety percent of its light was lost. Even in the tropics, the earth gradually gave way to endless snow.
Agriculture collapsed. No farming meant no food.
People dropped dead everywhere. Food became the ultimate scarcity. The cold was so severe that the elderly and children died out first. Even the surviving greenhouses couldn't produce enough crops to feed the masses.
In the end, the rulers of that era made a brutal choice: isolate a chosen few inside sealed domes and abandon the rest of humanity.
The global population cratered, plummeting from nine billion to just ninety thousand citizens scattered across a few tropical domes. A few hundred outsiders were eventually reported to have survived in caves or deep underground bunkers, but their total didn't even reach a thousand.
Inside the domes, the survivors established strict rules and divided labor based on specialized skills. Medical care, rations, and education were restricted strictly to them and their descendants.
That is why a family name is everything today. Having a family name means you are a direct descendant of the dome survivors—a recognized citizen protected by the law.
And this history lesson? You only get it if you finish your basic education. Don't ask me if the morons outside know any of this. Honestly, I doubt they can even read.
"Shitt, why I suddenly thinking of the past. better for me to get my sleep."
---
Morning arrived while Edgar was still sleeping soundly. The peace didn't last. A frantic, heavy pounding rattled the door frame.
"KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK! Edgar, you pathetic little shit, come out right now, you bastard!"
Groggy and thick with sleep, Edgar dragged himself out of bed and crossed his cramped, suffocatingly small flat.
Click.
"Yes, yes, I'm coming. What do you ne—"
THUD!
"Argh! F-fuck—"
THUD!
"Who the hell do you think you are, idiot?" a heavy voice boomed. "I clearly texted you last night. Not only did I not receive the money I usually get, but I didn't even get a response. Are you begging to get killed, huh?"
"I-I'm sorry," Edgar choked out, holding his stomach. "I was already asleep last night. I didn't even see the—"
THUD!
"Oh, now you know how to talk back, huh? What's next? You going to kill me in my sleep?"
"N-no! No. I didn't mean that, please, just listen to me," Edgar stammered, raising his hands in surrender. "I-I'll pay, okay? How much do you want, Brett? I guarantee this will never happen again. I'm sorry."
"This idiot thinks he can do whatever he wants these days." Brett delivered one final, cruel THUD into Edgar's ribs. "I'll let it slide today. Just give me the damn money!"
"Ugh... fuck... I've got it. Wait a second. I'll get the money right away."
Edgar leaned against the wall, dry-heaving. This hurts like hell. How does his punch feel like getting hit with a baseball bat? I can't piss him off anymore or I'll get another beating. Just let the money go. I can always earn it back.
With trembling hands, Edgar reached into his hidden stash and pulled out a small leather pouch. "Here. This is all the money I have left. I have nothing else. You can search the whole place if you want, but there's nothing left."
Brett snatched the pouch, weighing it in his hand with a smug grin. "Hmmph. Thirty-six silver and twenty copper, is it? You seem to have enough sincerity, I guess. Well, none of this would have happened if you'd just given me the money last night. You know you can always ask your brother here if you run into trouble outside. I hope you stay well and healthy, Ed."
"Yes, yes. I'll rely on you whenever I'm in trouble, Brett. Thanks for looking out for me," Edgar lied through his teeth, swallowing the bitter taste of bile.
"No need, as long as you're healthy and eating well. That's what matters. I'll get going now. But hey, the streets seem packed today—I bet something big is happening. Bye-bye, Ed."
The heavy door slammed shut.
"THAT FUCKER!" Edgar roared the moment the footsteps faded down the hall. "Damn it! I lost my entire savings. All I have left is the five silver I won from betting last night. Fuck! Fuck, fuck!"
He slumped against the door, sliding down to the cold floor. Huuuhhh. Now what? What day is it even? And what kind of commotion was that bastard talking about? Better get ready and go outside. Ah, shit... my ribs are still throbbing. Fuck.