The water sputtered from the tap, rusty and slow, like the pipes were choking on age. Oliver cupped it in his hands and splashed his face.
Cold. Not enough to wake him up.
He stared into the mirror again.
Same face.
Same stranger.
The dream still clung to his skin like smoke. That alley. The blood. The man in the window. None of it made sense, but it didn't feel random. It felt like a memory wearing someone else's coat.
He dried his face on the towel hanging near the basin. It smelled faintly of mildew.
A knock came at the door.
Soft. One beat. Then two.
He froze.
No one should be here.
Not yet.
Not ever.
Another knock. Louder this time.
He stepped quietly to the door, pressed his eye to the peephole. Warped glass. Shadows on the other side.
"Mr. Ardwin?" A woman's voice. Calm. Even. "This is a scheduled inspection. Open the door, please."
He didn't move.
Another voice joined in, male this time. "We are authorized by Interior Oversight. Your compliance is expected."
His mind raced. What inspection? He hadn't been told anything. But refusing to open the door—was that worse?
He unlatched the bolt. Slowly opened it.
Two people stood in the hallway. Both in charcoal-gray coats, the kind that looked tailored but cheap. The man held a clipboard. The woman wore gloves. Her hair was tied back so tight it looked painful.
Neither smiled.
"Routine checks," she said. "Verification protocol. May we?"
He stepped aside.
They entered without waiting.
The woman moved toward the desk, eyes scanning the room like a scanner might. The man flipped through his clipboard, pen tapping steadily.
"How long have you occupied this room?" he asked.
"Since the start of the cycle," Oliver replied.
"Any irregularities? Malfunctions in plumbing, lighting, structural faults?"
"No."
The man wrote that down.
The woman lifted the pillow. Paused. Her gloved hand hovered over the folded verification slip he'd tucked there.
"Keeping this under a pillow is inadvisable," she said, holding it up.
"I didn't have a drawer."
"Still inadvisable."
She returned it. No further comment.
The man checked the basin. Opened the drawer. Nudged the chair.
"What's this?" he asked suddenly.
Oliver turned. The man was holding the brass plate.
"My verification tag."
"You should carry it at all times."
"I wasn't planning to leave today."
A pause. Then a slight nod.
"Noted."
They didn't stay long after that. The woman made a final note, then both turned to leave.
Before stepping out, the man stopped in the doorway.
"Stay aware, Mr. Ardwin. Things shift quickly around here. Missing a knock can mean more than a fine."
Then they were gone.
The door shut.
Silence again.
Oliver exhaled slowly, muscles tight.
He walked to the window. Looked out.
Same street. Same gray sky. But the people below looked faster today. Tense. Even more hurried than usual.
Something felt off.
He put on his coat. Slid the brass plate into his pocket. Checked his shoes. Still damp from the fog outside.
He didn't have a destination, not really. But staying still wasn't an option. Not after the dream. Not after the knock.
Outside, the air cut colder than before. The fog had teeth today. He walked with his hands in his coat pockets, head low.
Posters had changed.
New ones slapped over the old.
— CYCLE 5 APPROACHES. FINAL VERIFICATIONS MANDATORY
— CITIZENS MUST REPORT ALL NIGHTTIME DISRUPTIONS
— THE THRONE SEES. THE CHARTER REMEMBERS.
He passed a woman sweeping her steps, her eyes darting to him and then away. A dog barked somewhere unseen. The trams screeched louder now, like the whole city was irritated.
Oliver took a turn he hadn't before.
The street narrowed into an alley that smelled of grease and metal filings. Men in heavy aprons hauled crates from a dented steam-wagon. None looked up.
At the far end, a wall.
No, a mural.
Old paint, barely visible beneath the grime. A figure seated on a throne—but faceless. Just shadow under a gold crown. And around it, smaller figures, bent or kneeling.
Someone had written across the bottom in shaky black strokes:
"The Throne Hungers."
Oliver stepped back.
Footsteps behind him.
Fast.
He turned—
—but no one was there.
Just steam rising from a vent, hissing like a warning.
His breath came shorter now. Something was coming. He didn't know what.
But he could feel it.
And for the first time since waking in this strange place, he realized something dangerous:
Maybe he wasn't alone in his mind.
Oliver didn't linger.
He turned and walked fast—then faster.
Each footfall echoed like a warning bell in the tight alley. The fog pressed against his shoulders like hands trying to slow him down. That feeling from the mural hadn't left him. It clung to him like damp cloth—unseen eyes crawling over his skin.
The streets blurred past in blocks of gray and rust. He stuck to the alleys, avoiding the main thoroughfares and patrol rails. He didn't want to be stopped. Not like this. Not when the beat of his heart still hadn't leveled out.
That's when he heard the shouting.
It echoed from a building stoop just ahead, a voice as brittle as cracked bone.
"You useless little wretch! That vase was a century old!"
Oliver slowed.
An old woman stood at the top of the steps, wrapped in a thick burgundy shawl, face sharp and sour like spoiled milk. She pointed a gnarled finger down at a young girl—no more than sixteen—who stood hunched over, eyes wide, tearful, hands trembling as she clutched a dust rag to her chest.
"I-I'm sorry, Miss. I didn't mean— I slipped—"
"Slipped?! You people are always full of excuses." The woman's lip curled. "You think that uniform makes you untouchable? Shall I report this to the Workers' Association? See how long you last after that?"
"No, please—" the girl pleaded, voice cracking. "I need this job. My shift ran over and— I was just trying to make it on time."
Oliver watched from across the street.
The girl's knees were bent like she expected to be hit. Her apron was dirty, smudged with soot and what looked like blood—likely from the broken vase. Her eyes flicked toward Oliver for half a second, desperate for anyone to step in.
He didn't move.
Didn't say a word.
His face didn't change.
Just a blank pane of glass.
Then he turned and walked on, steps faster now. The woman's shrill voice followed him down the street, still berating the girl, still threatening.
He didn't look back.
He didn't feel anything.
At least, not anything useful.
Halfway down the next block, his stomach grumbled. Loudly. Sharp and twisting like a coil snapping inside him.
He stopped, checked his coat pockets again. His fingers touched the brass plate, the verification slip… but nothing else. No coin. No food voucher.
Nothing edible.
He cursed under his breath. Of course. He hadn't eaten since he woke up in this place. Hadn't even realized it until now. The body worked on instinct, but instincts could only run so long on adrenaline and confusion.
He looked up at the sky.
Still that eternal gray.
Still that filtered sun, like someone had dimmed the whole world on purpose.
A cart trundled past on the next street over, carrying crates marked "CIVIC RATIONS – DISTRICT 4." Two uniformed haulers shouted at a man who got too close. One swung a baton lazily in his direction.
Oliver kept moving.
He needed to think. Food was a problem—but so was everything else.
And worst of all… he didn't know if that dream from earlier had really ended.
Because ever since he'd woken, the world felt tilted. Like something in it had changed just a few degrees off normal, and no one but him could feel it.
He made it back to District 9.
Back to his building.
Back to the door with peeling paint and the faint smell of wet brick and mold. He unlocked it. Stepped inside. Shut the door behind him and leaned his back against it.
Silence again.
But now it felt heavier.
He crossed to the chair. Sat. Hands steepled beneath his chin.
The mural. The inspection. The girl. The hunger.
It was all pressure, building up.
This world wasn't just strange. It was coiled—tight with rules and whispers and punishment waiting around every corner.
Oliver stared at the floor.
If he wanted to survive—no, if he wanted to win—he needed more than a room and a name.
He needed information.