"I know. I get what you mean."
"I need to go wash Hazel's pants."
Ignoring the worn elbows of the shirt she was wearing, Fioni used Hazel's pants as an excuse to slip away.
Raimund waited a moment, then lightly knocked on the door.
"Olive. I'm coming in."
The bedroom was much smaller than downstairs.
The boy occupied the only bed.
When he saw Raimund, the boy immediately sat up.
He tried to smile as if nothing was wrong, but Raimund noticed the cold sweat on Olive's forehead and his pale face.
"Bro, You're back early today."
"Yeah. I came quickly because I was worried about our family."
Raimund sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, joking.
Family.
Those from the orphanage in Sector 4.
At that, Olive faintly raised and lowered the corners of his mouth.
"Yeah, since things turned out like this, should I call you 'Dad' too? Like I did to the director?"
"Ugh. You think I'm the kind of guy who hits you like the director? What nonsense. I'm the breadwinner running around feeding, clothing, and putting you to bed."
"Alright. Anyway, you didn't come empty-handed. You brought something good."
"Right. Just check how much is inside."
Raimund handed the credit sticks to Olive two white ones and one pale yellow.
Olive fetched an old junk laptop from the bedside table.
This was their old teamwork.
Raimund brought them, Olive hacked the security program and checked the amount.
No one knew how Olive bypassed the credit stick's lock, but he always did exactly what Raimund wanted.
"The white ones don't need a separate device. Together they have 423 credits."
"The yellow one?"
"Wait a moment… here, 1,640 credits."
Olive pounded on the rattling keyboard and turned the laptop screen to Raimund, showing white codes and numbers on a black program screen.
After the shelter was built in England, continental trade failed to develop and the currency exchange system collapsed, so all shelter governments across continents established a new currency.
Humans who once bought things with shells, then with gold, myrrh, spices, and silk, moved away from paper and aluminum to currency existing only in the electronic world.
That new currency was called Credit.
The device storing credit was called a Credit Stick.
People carried credit sticks in their pockets as they once carried paper bills and coins.
There was no limit on how many credit sticks one could carry, but the credits stored per stick were limited by serial number.
For example, the most common white credit stick could hold up to 500 credits.
Yellow could hold 2,000, red 3,000.
Rare black sticks could contain tens of thousands.
Of course, some special credit sticks directly linked to bank accounts existed, similar to past check cards, but few dared to use them due to security concerns.
For a petty thief like himself, losing everything to the bank would be tragic.
"There are some downsides, but for a day's work, this isn't bad, right?"
"Gonna launder it into old currency?"
"Yeah. I'll take it to a broker. They take too much commission, but there's no other way."
Was the fee 8 percent?
Raimund watched Olive disable the security program and started calculating in his head.
2,063 credits minus 8 percent fee,
Rent this week, 250 credits to the shelter government.
300 credits to send to the orphanage director.
73 credits for electricity and water.
Food would cost a bit, and oh, Fioni kept mentioning the plumbing repair—might as well get it done now.
Wait, would there be enough left to buy Olive's painkillers? If they postpone the plumbing…
"Bro, I'm done. Here you go."
"Thanks."
"That's what I should say. You brought us here."
Olive seemed sincere when he added that.
Raimund took the laptop and carefully laid Olive down.
"Let's move somewhere better someday. You deserve a space where you can move around."
"I don't have legs anyway."
"You can use prosthetics or a wheelchair. What's the problem?"
"Haha."
Olive let out a hollow laugh and closed his eyes.
He really looked exhausted.
Raimund left the bedroom quietly.
Downstairs, Fioni was busy thawing frozen food and fixing Hazel's clothes, but she got up, puzzled, seeing him come down.
"Going out again?"
"Yeah. I have to finish today's work."
"Be back before dinner. Hazel, say goodbye to brother."
"Okay."
Hazel shoved her fist back into her mouth while Fioni frowned and wiped the drool sliding down her chin.
Raimund smiled cheerfully, waved, and left the house.
But as soon as he stepped outside, his cheerfulness evaporated like steam.
Unconsciously, he thought: Ah, I wish some credit bundle would just fall from the sky somewhere.
Sector 5 Residential District.
Located at the outermost edge of the shelter, it was a slum where the shelter's failures and poor gathered.
Here, all that could be heard were the noisy clangs of scrap heaps brought from the economic and other residential districts, and the stench of garbage mountains.
When artificial rain fell, the streets quickly flooded.
Those without even a place to lie down naturally crawled into narrow alleys, tram stop benches, and sealed sewers.
Compared to them, Raimund was a huge lucky guy.
Before leaving the orphanage, an epidemic flu had swept through Sector 5, killing many vulnerable people who could barely buy medicine, let alone receive treatment.
Thanks to that, Raimund got a home allocated by lottery to shelter citizens right after leaving the orphanage.
At first, thinking someone had died and been removed from the house felt unsettling.
Now he wanted to bow in thanks.
Is that immoral?
Not at all.
To survive Sector 5, one had to sell their conscience, morality, and ethics. Such feelings were luxury.
If you don't eat right now, you die.
If you can't pay rent, you get evicted.
Shelter nights are cold and harsh.
Acting on your conscience won't guarantee your life.
You might die with the nickname "Good Samaritan," but…
Anyway, Sector 5 is that place. The lowest bottom of the shelter, a cesspool of life.
If only he could leave this place.
Raimund didn't ask for much.
It'd be enough if Fioni, Hazel, Olive, and himself could live somewhat normally.
A fridge and shelves stocked with plenty of food,
A house without leaks, warm enough without needing to hold Hazel under a blanket,
Windows that let in fresh air instead of the stench of rotting trash,
A place where Olive could move freely using prosthetics or a wheelchair,
An institution nearby where Hazel could get proper treatment and education,
And a place safe enough that Fioni could go for walks alone at night.
Raimund wiped his face.
No, really. He was genuinely disgusted with this street.
He wished there were no crazy old men wandering barefoot, asking strangers if they had money.
He wanted to escape the watchful eyes that scanned for anything to steal or any resident who looked too happy.
But…
To do that, he couldn't keep doing petty pickpocketing like now.
He had to find a better-paying job.
Though uneducated, the kinds of work he could do were limited, but he still needed another opportunity.
A big chance to escape from this miserable life worse than sewer sludge.
But to wait for such a chance, he inevitably needed money, and the quickest way to get it was pickpocketing.
Was he doomed to become a worthless criminal after all?
Just like the orphanage director always said,
Was he nothing but a useless presence who only dirtied the shelter?
No, get a grip.
If stealing or whatever else could support those three, that was enough.
No complaining, Raimund.
"First, I'll check other residential districts again, then go to the broker, and check painkiller prices…"
Recalling the tasks he had to finish today, Raimund headed back to the tram station.
That was the last routine day Raimund remembered.