Chapter 157
- Kaysi -
After seeing the silent police, I wanted to figure out what secrets this city was hiding.
"If you don't mind," I said carefully, "I think we'd like to do some sightseeing. You can return to your work. We'll come back once we finish looking around, if that's okay." I asked the nurse.
Our guide slowed, then turned with an approving nod.
"I believe that would be fine. Shell City loves to feed a curious spirit. Also, thank you again for assisting us." She said, clasping her hands behind her back as she walked. "The city council appreciates cooperation."
Josh blinked. "We didn't really assist with anything."
She smiled without missing a step. "Survival cooperation still counts."
That answer slid past him like it made sense.
We reached an open platform overlooking one of the lower districts. The railings curved outward, designed more for aesthetics than for safety. Beyond them, towers rose in tight clusters, less ornate than the upper levels but still clean—still intact.
"This concludes your escorted route," she said. "You're welcome to explore freely."
Micah straightened. "All of it?"
"Most of it." The guide lifted a finger. "Just one restriction."
She gestured toward the far edge of the city, where massive structures loomed behind thick barriers—walls reinforced with darker alloys, studded with warning glyphs and glowing markers.
"The outer industrial zones are restricted," she said pleasantly. "Radiation containment facilities. Power generation. Necessary, but hazardous."
James frowned. "How hazardous?"
"Enough that curiosity would be unwise." Her smile didn't fade. "Please remain within residential and commercial levels. It's to be of concern; they pose no threat to the other citizens."
"We understand," I told her. But I felt there was more behind that place than what we knew.
We moved slowly, blending in as best as we could. People passed us without a second glance. Vendors called out cheerful prices. Music drifted from open windows. Everything felt lived-in and normal, too normal for a place built beneath an ocean. But maybe that was the point: they had never known anything like this.
Then we saw the Silent Police again.
They moved in a line of three dark-cloaked figures, faces hidden to avoid disrupting the public. They stopped in front of a small unit tucked beneath one of the lower terraces. The door was small, its paint faded and chipped where countless hands had rested over the years.
It took a moment before it opened.
A little old woman stood there, hunched and thin, her gray hair pulled back in a loose knot. She leaned heavily on a cane, blinking up at the officers, as she already knew why they were there.
"Yes?" She politely asked, her voice trembling.
"Citizen Mara Elin," one of the officers said evenly. "Your residential tax extension is up for renewal."
Her shoulders sagged in defeat.
"I have it," she said quickly. "I—I kept it aside. Just give me a moment."
She disappeared back inside. We heard drawers opening. Something metal clinked. When she returned, her hands were shaking as she held out a small pouch and gave the money she had.
"That's everything," she said. "I was going to use it for my medicine, but... I'll manage."
The officer scanned the pouch. "This is enough payment accepted."
Relief flooded her face so fast it hurt to watch.
"T-thank you," she whispered. "Bless the city."
The officer nodded once, already turning away.
They didn't tell her what would happen if she couldn't pay next time. She looked in fear of what could happen. We followed a bit more to find out.
As the door closed, Micah exhaled shakily. "She's going to survive. That's the point."
The Silent police didn't slow.
The next house sat much farther down, closer to one of the support pylons. Brighter. Louder. A child's laughter drifted through the door—and then stopped abruptly when it opened.
A heavily pregnant woman stood there, one arm instinctively wrapped, protecting her belly, the other holding a small child that clung to her leg.
"No," she said immediately. "Please. Not yet."
A man stepped up beside her—her husband. He didn't argue. He just stood straighter.
"My husband is on rotation already. We just need more time."
The officer glanced at his display. "Debt threshold exceeded. Labor reassignment authorized."
The woman shook her head. "I'm due any day," she said, her voice cracking. "He can't go tonight. I need him."
The officer didn't look at her.
"Temporary exemptions apply only to citizens with verified independent support," he said flatly. "You do not qualify, as you have not signed up. Once he arrives at the center, he can apply and, upon approval, be released for home-based service as long as he doesn't miss a day. That takes 4 to 6 weeks for paperwork."
The boy started crying.
The man knelt immediately, pulling him close. "It's okay," he murmured, though nothing about this was. He stood, kissed the child's hair, then pressed his head gently to his wife's before leaving her with a kiss.
"I'll come back," he said, not like a promise—more like hope he needed to believe.
She grabbed his sleeve for a second.
Then the silent police took him.
No struggle. No resistance. Just quiet efficiency.
The door closed far too gently after them.
No one spoke.
Curfew alarms chimed faintly in the distance—a soft, melodic tone that felt cruel in how pleasant it sounded.
The woman turned back slowly, seeing us, eyes red, hand shaking. She could tell we were outsiders, even though we were dressed in their cultural clothing.
"You should go," she said. "They don't like people out after curfew, and you can get in a lot of trouble."
James swallowed. "We don't have anywhere to go; the medical unit is too far from here, and our guide neglected to tell us about this rule."
She hesitated.
Then sighed, tired in the way only people with nothing left to lose are.
"Children, you can stay," she said quietly. "Just for the night,"
Her home wall was small—cramped but clean. A thin couch. A fold-out cot. Bare floor with woven mats, the child fell asleep almost instantly, curled against his mother as she eased herself down.
She spoke while she worked—not asking questions, just filling the silence.
"My husband was supposed to finish his plant assignment next month," she said, setting out cups of water. "Then the baby would come. That was the plan."
She didn't look at us when she added, "Plans don't seem to matter here in the city."
Evan opened his mouth like he was going to say something, then shut it again.
"I think we—" She cut me off before I could finish.
"I don't want to know what you're thinking." She said softly. "If I know, I could be punished. I can tell by the look in your eyes that your world seems far different from ours.
I nodded.
"But," she continued, voice barely above a whisper, "I don't want him to miss the birth of our child."
She went to lie down without another word.
The city lights dimmed outside.
And sleep came unevenly for all of us.