Mara stood at the cracked bus stop down the block from where it happened, clutching her phone so hard her knuckles hurt. The sidewalk was clean. The security drones had passed twice. No blood. No struggle. No sign a girl had been taken.
But she had.
Julie had.
Mara's throat tightened as she replayed the moment—Roman lifting Julie like she weighed nothing, Julie screaming her name, Dean dragging Mara back before she could swing—
And then the car just… left.
Mara tried calling every emergency contact the schools said to use for claim disputes.
Population Control Hotline:
"Claim disputes must be filed by a legally recognized guardian."
Mara was 22. She was nobody's guardian.
Neighborhood Oversight Council:
"Claim was witnessed by a licensed officer. No violation."
Mara slammed her phone into her lap.
Then, finally, in a tiny voice:
"Do you know if she's alive?"
The Council rep paused—too long.
"…no fatality reports matching that description."
Not alive.
Not safe.
Just unreported.
Mara stared down the street where the sedan had disappeared.
"Julie," she whispered, voice cracking, "please be okay."
The door chime sounded at 10:14am—polite, clinical, government-coded.
Julie froze mid-step in the hallway.
Roman appeared almost instantly, one hand raised slightly—stay behind me.
Two inspectors entered, badges visible, tablet scanners in hand. They didn't look at Julie. They looked around her—checking posture, breathing, facial stress—like livestock evaluation.
"Claimant Vale," the taller one said, "we received notice of a street-claim last night."
Roman nodded. "Filed and uploaded within the hour."
"Show us the subject."
Roman stepped aside so they could see Julie without approaching her. Julie stared at the floor, hands shaking, compliance cuff visible.
The shorter inspector read off his tablet:
"Julie Hayes, age 22, Civic Clinic District… no known medical exemptions… no prior claims… compliant presentation… cuff active…"
He finally addressed Julie directly—first time since entering.
"Raise your wrist."
Julie obeyed, silent.
The cuff blinked green.
"Vitals stable. No escape attempt. No obstruction charges."
Then, without meeting her eyes:
"Transition clearance authorized. Pink to Silver."
He typed something. A moment later, her cuff chimed softly—registered to Roman's jurisdiction.
Inspectors turned to leave.
Julie whispered, "Can I—can I talk to my friend? Mara—just to tell her—"
The tall inspector cut her off without looking back.
"Claimed subjects are discouraged from maintaining old community ties. Refer to integration training."
The door shut behind them.
Julie's shoulders crumpled. Roman's jaw ticked once—a silent rage she wasn't meant to see.
After the inspectors left, Roman said quietly, "You're free to walk the house. Now is a good time."
Free.
House.
But not outside.
Julie nodded, numb, and wandered slowly—like if she moved too fast she'd get in trouble.
The house was clean and structured, almost sterile. Concrete, glass, dark wood. A few plants that probably had technicians instead of pots.
She passed a framed certificate on the wall:
National Population Security Directorate
Deputy Chief — Roman Vale
Deputy Chief.
Not just high-ranking.
Elite.
Julie swallowed.
No wonder the inspector didn't question him. No wonder the house was so quiet. Powerful men didn't need noise.
She pushed open a glass door and stepped into a library—floor-to-ceiling shelves, mostly law and population policy texts.
One spine caught her eye:
"Fertility Decline and National Destiny."
Her stomach twisted.
Julie backed out.
Dean was in the kitchen restocking the fridge—quiet, efficient. Julie hesitated in the doorway, unsure if she was allowed to speak.
Dean noticed without turning.
"Take what you want," he said gently. "This isn't Procurement. Nobody rations you here."
Julie approached slowly. "Is it… is it okay to ask questions?"
Dean closed the fridge and faced her. "Yeah. Just maybe not the ones that get you in trouble."
Julie's eyes widened. "Like which ones?"
Dean leaned in slightly, voice low so Roman wouldn't hear from the other room.
"Don't ask him what happens if the evaluation fails. Not today."
Julie's breath caught. "Why?"
"Because he'll tell you the truth," Dean said softly, "and you're not ready for it yet."
He offered her a glass of water—hands steady, eyes warm but unreadable. No claim. No touch. No pressure.
Just… kindness.
Julie took the glass with both hands, grateful.
Dean didn't say he'd seen her before. Didn't say he remembered the way she calmed children or handed out clinic stickers or whispered encouragement to tired mothers.
He kept that locked behind his ribs, where Roman would never find it.
Roman stood in his office after Julie left, staring at Julie's compliance feed—vitals steady, hormone spikes still elevated from fear.
He didn't like feeling like a jailer.
He didn't like the cuff.
Or the evaluation.
Or the six-month clock.
He'd grown up in the Directorate.
He'd seen charts, projections, maps of fertility collapse.
He'd been trained to see women as data points.
But yesterday, when he saw Julie on that sidewalk…
She wasn't data.
She wasn't percentages.
She was a person he couldn't walk past.
Roman shut the feed off and pressed his hands against the desk.
Dean was wrong—he hadn't chosen with his rank or his training.
He had chosen because he felt something.
And for a man like Roman Vale, who enforced law but did not break it, that feeling was dangerous.
He would never admit that to Dean.
Or to her.
That afternoon, a package arrived via courier drone—Julie's Integration Kit.
Roman placed it on the table.
Julie opened it with trembling fingers.
Inside were:
A handbook titled "Claim Integration & Contribution Training"
A tablet loaded with modules
Clothing vouchers
A sanitary kit
Psychological adjustment pamphlets
Julie picked up the handbook and skimmed:
Module 1: Behavior Expectations
Module 2: Domestic Contribution
Module 3: Fertility Awareness
Module 4: Emotional Compliance
Module 5: Partner Obedience
Her vision blurred.
She swallowed. "Is this… required?"
Roman nodded. "Every claimed female completes it. It prepares you for evaluation. Some parts are outdated, but the Directorate won't remove them."
Julie pressed the handbook against her chest, trying not to shake.
That night, Roman called his family on holo-comm.
His mother answered immediately, hair sleek, uniform flawless, eyes sharp.
"Your claim has been processed," she said. "Congratulations."
Roman's jaw tightened. "She's adjusting."
His mother's brow arched. "Adjustment is irrelevant. Results are relevant."
A second face appeared—Roman's older brother, dressed in field fatigues.
"Took you long enough," he said with a smirk. "Didn't think you'd ever pick one."
Roman glared. "This isn't a sport, Cassian."
Their mother cut in. "The Hayes girl scored well in Civic assessments. The Directorate will expect strong fertility prospects."
Roman's voice went ice-cold. "She is not a breeding quota."
His mother blinked once. "That is precisely what she is, Roman. Do not confuse compassion with utility."
The call ended without goodbye.
Roman stared at the empty screen.
He didn't smash it.
But he wanted to.
Julie sat in her temporary room, handbook open, compliance cuff glowing faintly on her wrist.
Dean smoked quietly on the balcony, eyes on the stars, thinking about a girl he wasn't allowed to want.
Roman stood in the dark office, palms flat on his desk, breathing slow and controlled—like someone preparing for a war no one else knew had already started.
The six-month clock had not started yet.
But everything else had.