"Some days start painfully."
Raimund Geppert, lying on a pile of trash in a back alley of Sector 3 Residential District, was one of the few who knew that fact all too well.
Since humanity built the shelter and isolated the human race from the cruel external environment, the world had changed a lot.
People trapped inside the transparent dome-structured society quickly adapted to the changed world, and within the ever-shrinking environment, they began looking out for their own survival.
Of course, there were always those who fell behind.
Those who couldn't adapt to change, those who lost their jobs and homes for whatever reason, those who were expelled, those who ran away.
Such people wandered the streets like gloomy ghosts, pale and bloodless, without any purpose or will.
Compared to those people, Raimund was in a considerably better situation—though his whole body reeked of stench, and his swollen cheekbone throbbed from a beating.
Rummaging through the pocket of his worn jeans, he found a sleek black wallet.
It contained various cards, receipts, and even a cozy family photo of unknown origin, but none of that mattered.
He poked his finger deep into the card slot and touched something hard and thin.
A pale yellow plastic stick, about half the size of a normal business card.
"Oh, this looks like a pretty good haul."
He quickly pulled the stick out and stuffed it back into his pocket, then carelessly tossed the wallet onto the pile of trash.
After confirming it had landed well behind a biodegradable garbage bag clogged with filth, he got up.
"Ouch. That guy sure packs a punch."
"Figures, just by looking at him."
Raimund muttered, rubbing his cheekbone.
He'd been hit just for bumping shoulders with someone passing by.
Though he felt awkward admitting it, he secretly took pride in his face.
No one ever told him at the orphanage, but maybe his abandoned mother or father had some decent looks.
Raimund's blonde hair was a rare vivid blonde, and his eyes were a dark green.
Nineteen years old, a bit over 6 feet 2 inches tall, well-built enough not to be disrespected wherever he went.
But he wasn't going anywhere.
Or rather, he couldn't.
Shaking off the trash from his body, he pulled his hat deep over his head and left the spot.
Sector 3 Residential District wasn't a place for the well-off, but sometimes luck followed.
Raimund felt the clinking of three or four credit sticks in his pocket.
He headed to the main road and took the unmanned tram.
The red tram was the only one connecting here to Sector 5 Residential District.
Wiggling through the packed crowd, Raimund found a corner seat and stared blankly at the passing scenery.
That bastard who bumped him would only realize his wallet was gone after about thirty minutes.
He'd retrace his steps to the shops and places he'd visited, and only very late would he finally think of Raimund.
Then he'd probably check the trash bin where he had dumped him, but well—what he'd find there was nothing but a dirty wallet missing the credit stick.
Imagining that made Raimund feel a little better.
His aching cheekbone even seemed to improve.
Less than two hours later, the tram stopped slowly at Sector 5 Residential District.
Few passengers remained after passing through Sector 4.
Raimund got off with the swaying crowd, passed under the rusty and crooked station sign, and entered a narrow street thick with damp and gloomy fog.
The houses lining the street were all small, cramped, and smelled strange.
A foul stench that seemed a mix of mouse droppings and musty air.
Probably contributed by his own smell too.
He carefully avoided brushing past passersby or being bumped himself.
It was completely different from Sector 3.
But here, that was necessary.
Sector 5 Residential District—the place where those who were rejected by all flocked, all hoping to get government-supplied housing.
People without proper jobs, scraping by day to day at best.
Otherwise, crazy folks huddled in fog-filled alleys muttering incomprehensible sounds.
Raimund passed his strangely familiar neighbors and quickened his pace.
"Abby Lane."
The street name was scrawled in paint on the damp ground.
Raimund stopped in front of a small house at the end of the street and finally relaxed.
Where are the keys… where are the keys.
Click.
"Big Brother!"
A small warm body wobbled and grabbed Raimund's leg.
Raimund easily picked the child up and hugged her.
"Hazel. Were you playing well? Where's Fioni?"
"With Olive brother."
She was probably no older than four.
The child called Hazel answered mumbling, with her hand in her mouth.
Raimund pulled Hazel's saliva-covered hand out and wiped it on his clothes, then kissed her cheek.
A small two-story house.
Climbing the narrow stairs with rusted railings, Raimund saw Fioni cautiously closing the door in a cramped hallway.
She looked tired, as if she had just finished caring for Olive, but brightened at seeing Raimund.
"You're already back?"
"Got something done. How's Olive? Already asleep?"
"No… I don't think he can sleep without painkillers. That leg's still a problem."
Fioni lowered her voice so no one inside could hear.
Raimund sighed despite himself.
Effective painkillers were expensive, and those who could afford them didn't live here.
"If we're lucky, maybe we can buy a bottle. Then Olive might get better."
"That'd be great. But don't think we're just dumping all this on you, okay? Both Olive and I are just thankful to you."