The building at 7B looked older than the rest. Not in the charming, historical sense—but in the kind of way that said no one had touched it in decades. Blackened stone. Rust-streaked corners. Narrow windows like slit eyes, all shut.
He checked the number again.
Yeah. This was it.
A set of cracked steps led to a plain door. No signs. No guards. Just a small brass slot at chest height, stamped with the emblem from his ID plate—Office of Citizen Verification.
He knocked once.
Nothing.
Twice.
Still nothing.
Then the door clicked. A faint hum from inside. He pushed it open.
The hallway was sterile. Gray walls. Low ceiling. Rows of chairs lined the left side, all empty. A desk at the end, with a woman behind it. Her uniform was dark, collar high. No expression on her face.
"Name?" she asked.
"Oliver Ardwin."
Her eyes flicked to a small ledger. She ran a finger down a column, then nodded once.
"Step into Room Three."
"Where is that?"
She didn't answer. Just tilted her head toward the right.
He walked slowly. Three wooden doors. Plain numbers etched above them. One. Two. Three.
He knocked.
"Enter," came a voice from inside.
He did.
The room was cold. Empty, except for a chair in the center, facing another small desk. A man sat behind it. Thin-rimmed glasses. Pale hair. Fingers folded.
He gestured to the chair.
Oliver sat.
The man didn't speak for a while. Just studied him.
"State your occupation," the man finally said.
"I don't have one."
"Education?"
"Langston University. Lower City Division."
The man behind the desk didn't react. He just scribbled something down in a small ledger with a fountain pen that clicked faintly every time it tapped the page.
"And your current residence?"
"District 9. Apartment C, Floor 4. Room 17." Oliver kept his voice steady. It was the address on the envelope he found on the nightstand. No key—just the door left unlocked.
The man didn't question it. Just wrote again.
Oliver sat still. Breathing slow. Eyes calm.
But inside, he was piecing everything together.
This place—the city, the machines, the strange calendar—none of it matched anything he knew. But if there were rules to this world, he'd follow them. Blend in. Act like nothing was wrong.
The man looked up. "Any criminal record?"
"No."
"Any affiliation with registered groups or orders?"
"None."
The man stopped writing. His eyes flicked upward, sharp and searching now.
"You're sure?"
Oliver didn't flinch. "Positive."
A pause stretched. Then the man dipped his head once and made a final mark in the ledger.
"You are cleared for probationary residency. Your plate has been logged. A formal review will be conducted at the end of this cycle."
He reached into a drawer and pulled out a stamped form—faded ink, edges curled.
"Do not lose this. It confirms your verification. Show it if questioned by street patrol or interior monitors."
Oliver took the paper with both hands. It smelled like oil and dust.
"You may go."
He stood. The man didn't look up again. Just moved on to the next blank form.
Outside the door, the hallway was still empty. The woman at the front desk was already writing something else. She didn't look up as he passed.
He stepped outside into the cold again, breath curling in the air.
No one on the street.
The building behind him let the door shut with a solid thunk.
He checked the paper once more. No directions. No explanations. Just a seal and a line of unreadable script.
But it was enough.
He turned. Walked back to District 9. Back to the building that smelled like mold and rust.
Back to the strange room that now had his name.
He closed the door behind him. Locked it.
Then sat on the bed.
The form went under the pillow. The plate into his pocket. His coat onto the chair.
And finally—
He laid back.
Stared at the ceiling.
And closed his eyes. He didn't know when but he slowly dived deep into the sleep and started to a dream.
___
The sound of rain was annoyingly loud, and it was the point of irritating like someone scratching against stained glass.
He was standing under a old rusty metallic staircase, his shoes were coverd in mud and his coat was soaked through. Cold water dripped from the stairs above, tapping steadily against his shoulder. He didn't move. Just stared out into the narrow alley lit by a dying streetlamp, flickering like a stuttering memory.
Somewhere in the distance, the honking from horns where echoing and he looked at behind him, the plastic bags behind him was shifting slightly in the wind. A mangled cat darted between them, its fur patchy and wet, eyes glowing faint in the dark.
Oliver didn't feel surprised.
The alley felt familiar—not in a comforting way, but like a scar you'd forgotten about until it ached again. The kind of place you didn't remember until it showed up in dreams, smelling like rust, rot, and regret.
He stepped out from under the stairs.
Each footstep squelched in the mud. His breath fogged in front of him, and the rain kept falling. The streetlamp above buzzed, then popped with a weak spark. Darkness pressed in.
Suddenly everything changed he saw someone looking at him through the window while holding a knife, the left side of his stomach was bleeding. He looked at his hands which were covered in blood.
He didn't panic.
Didn't scream.
Just stared at his hands like they belonged to someone else. The blood had started drying in some spots, turning rusty, flaky. But fresh drops still leaked through his shirt.
It didn't hurt.
Not yet.
He pressed his palm against the wound. The warmth was sickening. He could feel his heartbeat in his fingers, like a slow drum counting something down.
The figure in the window was still there. Watching. Not moving.
Face half-covered by the cracked glass. No emotion. No urgency.
Oliver took a step back. His heel hit something metal—a trash bin? Maybe. He didn't look down.
He kept his eyes on the window.
It felt like something was waiting.
Then the light behind the figure went out.
Gone.
Like it had never been there.
The rain got louder. Or maybe everything else just went quiet. A wave of cold washed over him. He turned, slowly, instinct dragging his feet.
___
Oliver sat up in bed, breathing hard. Sweat on his neck. Chest rising and falling.
The room was dark. Quiet.
No rain.
He touched his side.
No wound.
He stood, crossed to the small mirror nailed above the sink.
Looked at himself.
Same tired face. Same dead eyes.
But something felt different now.
He didn't dream like that before.
Not until this world.
He turned on the tap.
Rusty water flowed out slow. Cold. He washed his hands anyway.