The final second disappeared.
Heavy locks withdrew inside the security doors with a succession of metallic impacts. Warning lights changed from blue to white, and the doors separated along the center, releasing a wave of heat that rolled across the waiting workers.
The machinery beyond them roared without pause.
Liam Vale stepped forward with the night shift.
Facility Forty-Seven had been built deep enough beneath the mountain that no worker knew where the industrial levels ended. Corridors crossed through immense chambers filled with pipes, turbines, refining drums, and processing engines assembled from several generations of government technology. Some machines were older than the workers assigned to maintain them. Others had been constructed around materials recovered from portal instances and behaved according to principles no ordinary mechanic fully understood.
Everything vibrated.
The floor trembled beneath Liam's boots. Steam hissed through overhead pipes, warning sirens sounded in distant sectors, and interlocking gears struck one another with enough force to drown out conversation. White lights shone through a permanent haze of heat and metallic dust.
A guard stood beside the open doors with a slate in one hand.
"Numbers visible," he ordered.
Workers adjusted their coats so the identification patches could be seen. Liam passed without raising his head.
"Forty-seven, two-one-eight-six," the guard called.
Liam stopped.
"Machinery repair, Processing Sector Three. Conveyor assembly nine."
"Yes, sir."
The guard marked the assignment without looking at him. "Production interruption is currently six minutes beyond allowance. Restore operation before the next processing cycle."
Liam glanced toward the corridor leading to Sector Three. "Do we know why it stopped?"
"You were assigned to determine that."
The guard's tone made the warning clear. Questions were tolerated only when they shortened a repair.
Liam nodded and continued.
Marcus walked beside him until the corridor divided. A red line painted across the floor led toward the ventilation network, while a yellow line descended toward machinery processing.
Marcus adjusted the equipment bag hanging from his shoulder. "Conveyor nine again?"
Liam nodded.
"That machine hates you."
"It hates everyone."
"Yes, but the two of you have history."
A guard on the nearest platform turned his head toward them.
Marcus immediately faced forward. His humor vanished beneath the expression all workers learned to wear around authority: attentive, obedient, and empty.
At the junction, Marcus moved toward the red corridor. "Try not to lose the other hand," he murmured.
Liam flexed the fingers beneath the wrap covering his injured palm. "Fix the bearing at junction twelve."
Marcus glanced back. "You heard that?"
"Six shifts ago."
"And you waited until now to tell me?"
"You were not assigned to it six shifts ago."
Marcus shook his head. "One day, your concern for me is going to become overwhelming."
They separated before another guard could accuse them of delaying their assignments.
Liam descended alone.
Processing Sector Three occupied a cavernous industrial chamber divided into elevated platforms. Conveyor systems crossed above one another like iron rivers, carrying sealed containers from portal-residue intake stations toward purification drums. Thick observation windows protected the central control station from heat and accidental Essence discharge.
Conveyor assembly nine remained motionless.
Its belt stretched across nearly half the chamber, loaded with black containment cases marked by rank, recovery team, and portal origin. The cases were designed to prevent the materials inside from affecting the facility during transport. Even through the seals, Liam could smell the faint metallic sweetness of portal residue.
Four workers waited beside the disabled assembly. Another had already removed one of the exterior panels, exposing a dense arrangement of gears and drive shafts.
The repair supervisor met Liam at the maintenance platform.
"You are late," the supervisor said.
Liam looked toward the shift clock mounted above the chamber. Less than four minutes had passed since the security doors opened.
"I reported directly from the equipment station."
"The assembly has been inactive for eleven minutes. Every minute is lost production."
Liam did not point out that the machine had failed before his shift began. Correcting a supervisor was rarely worth the satisfaction.
"What happened before it stopped?" Liam asked.
The supervisor gestured toward the exposed machinery. "The primary drive locked. Reset failed twice."
"Did it stop immediately?"
"It stopped. Repair it."
Liam crouched beside the open panel.
Heat pressed against his face. The primary drive gear was intact. No teeth were broken, and the surrounding lubricant had not darkened from friction. He examined the emergency brake, the drive chain, and the pressure-assisted rotation system.
Nothing appeared damaged.
The supervisor folded his arms. "Do you require assistance?"
"No."
"Then why is it still inactive?"
Liam ignored him and placed one hand against the metal housing.
The machine's surface carried vibrations from every operating system in the sector. Most workers felt only a continuous tremor. Liam separated the patterns instinctively. The purification drums created a slow pulse. The upper conveyors produced a lighter, repetitive rhythm. Coolant pumps beat beneath them in rapid sequences of four.
Something inside assembly nine answered with an uneven knock.
Liam leaned closer.
Knock.
Pause.
Knock.
A weaker third impact followed from farther inside the housing.
"The primary drive did not lock," Liam said.
The supervisor's mouth tightened. "The control station registered drive resistance."
"It registered resistance because the secondary shaft is pulling against it."
"The secondary shaft was inspected."
"While the system was inactive?"
"Yes."
Liam looked toward the containers resting on the conveyor belt. "The fault only appears under load."
The supervisor stepped closer. "The control station identified the primary drive."
"The control station is wrong."
Silence formed around the maintenance platform despite the machinery thundering throughout the chamber.
Workers did not tell supervisors that government equipment was wrong.
The supervisor stared at Liam's identification patch. "Repeat that."
Liam considered withdrawing the statement. An apology might prevent disciplinary review, but it would not repair the machine. Worse, another reset could force the damaged shaft to break completely.
"The resistance sensor measures pressure at the primary drive," Liam explained. "It cannot determine where that pressure originates. The secondary shaft is misaligned. Every time the belt carries weight, it pulls the primary drive sideways."
The supervisor looked toward the exposed gears. "There is no visible misalignment."
"It is behind the inner housing."
"Then you cannot see it."
"I can hear it."
One of the nearby workers lowered his eyes, concealing a reaction.
The supervisor's expression hardened. "Open the inner housing."
Liam removed two securing bolts and reached for the third. His wrapped palm protested as he turned the tool, but he kept his grip steady. When the final bolt came free, he loosened the metal plate without removing it completely.
A sharper metallic knock sounded from behind it.
The supervisor heard it this time.
Liam slid the plate aside.
The secondary shaft had shifted less than the width of a finger. A retaining collar remained attached, but a hairline fracture divided one side of the fastening ring. Under a full load, the collar would bend outward and drag the shaft from alignment. While inactive, it settled nearly into its proper position.
The supervisor leaned down to inspect it.
"How long?" he asked.
"Ten minutes to replace the ring. Longer if the shaft has warped."
"You have seven."
Liam began working.
The replacement ring was heavier than the original, taken from a storage rack meant for an older assembly model. It would fit, but only after the inner bracket was adjusted. Liam removed the damaged part, cleaned the fastening groove, and tested the shaft manually.
It resisted halfway through its rotation.
Warped.
He looked toward the clock. Five minutes remained before the next processing cycle.
Replacing the entire shaft would take at least an hour.
Liam reached deeper into the housing and felt along the supporting bracket. The metal was warm enough to burn through the cloth covering his palm.
"What are you doing?" the supervisor demanded.
"The shaft is bent."
"Then replace it."
"There is no time."
"Failure to restore the assembly will be included in your evaluation."
Liam found the adjustment bolts behind the bracket. "I can offset the support angle."
"That repair is not in the maintenance procedure."
"It will hold until the processing cycle ends."
"And after that?"
"We replace the shaft."
The supervisor looked toward the guard station overlooking the sector. Production failures were punished from the top downward. If the assembly missed another cycle, the supervisor would be blamed before Liam.
"Do it," he said.
Liam loosened the bracket.
The shaft dropped suddenly.
His injured hand slipped between the housing and the support plate. Metal crushed against his wrapped palm, reopening the cut beneath it. Pain shot through his wrist.
He pulled free before the mechanism could trap his fingers.
Blood spread through the cloth.
The supervisor saw it. "Can you continue?"
Liam knew what the question meant. Reporting the injury would halt the repair and send him for medical assessment. The treatment would be deducted from his ration allowance.
"Yes."
He tightened the bracket at the corrected angle, installed the replacement ring, and rotated the shaft again. The resistance had lessened, but it had not disappeared.
Two minutes remained.
Liam studied the connected gears. Adjusting the bracket farther would reduce friction, but too much movement would place the shaft beyond the drive gear's center. The assembly might function for several minutes before tearing itself apart.
He closed his eyes.
The sector became sound.
Turbines thundered beneath the floor. Chains traveled across distant tracks. Pressure valves opened and sealed. Somewhere above him, a loose panel rattled every fourth rotation.
Beneath it all, the damaged shaft produced a faint scrape.
Liam adjusted the bracket a fraction.
The scrape softened.
He moved it again.
The sound vanished.
"Secure it," Liam said.
A worker beside him tightened the outer bolts while Liam held the bracket in position. The supervisor moved to the control panel.
"One minute," the supervisor warned.
Liam replaced the inner housing, closed the exterior panel, and stepped away.
"Reset."
The supervisor entered the command.
Conveyor assembly nine shuddered. Warning lights flashed along its length as the primary drive engaged. The loaded belt moved several inches, stopped, and then lurched forward again.
The workers watched the exposed section of the machine.
A deep vibration traveled through the floor.
For a moment, Liam thought the shaft had slipped.
Then the belt settled into a steady rhythm.
The sealed containment cases moved toward the purification drums. The control station changed the assembly's status from red to white.
Production resumed with twelve seconds remaining.
The supervisor released a slow breath.
Liam looked down at the blood soaking through his hand wrap.
"You will report for medical inspection," the supervisor said.
"It is superficial."
"That determination belongs to medical staff."
"Medical inspection will remove me from assignment."
"You have completed the repair."
"The shaft still needs to be replaced."
The supervisor watched the containment cases travel along the belt. "Day shift can replace it."
"They will restart the assembly without reading the repair note."
"Then enter the warning correctly."
Liam knew how Facility Forty-Seven handled temporary solutions. Someone would see that the conveyor was operating and decide a full repair could wait. The damaged shaft might last another cycle. It might last ten.
Eventually, it would fail while loaded.
"When it begins knocking again, stop it immediately," Liam said. "Do not reset it."
The supervisor turned toward him. "Are you issuing instructions?"
"No, sir."
"Then report to medical."
Liam lowered his head. "Yes, sir."
He left the platform as the processing cycle continued behind him.
The medical station consisted of four examination bays separated by hanging partitions. A worker sat inside the first bay with burns crossing one side of his neck. Another held a cloth against his mouth while blood dripped between his fingers.
A medical attendant removed Liam's hand wrap.
The reopened cut crossed the center of his palm. Bruising had already begun around it.
"How did this occur?" she asked.
"Machinery housing shifted during repair."
She raised her eyebrows at him. "What about protective procedure?"
"They were followed."
She looked at him without expression. "Machinery does not shift when protective procedure is followed."
Liam remained silent.
The attendant cleaned the wound, applied a sealing compound, and wrapped his hand with a fresh bandage. The process took less than three minutes.
"Treatment will be recorded against your food allowance," she said. "Reduced ration begins next shift."
Liam expected nothing else.
When he returned to the industrial floor, he was reassigned to minor repairs for the remainder of the night. He replaced two pressure gauges, cleared metal fragments from a cooling intake, and tightened the loose panel he had heard while repairing conveyor nine.
Hours passed beneath artificial light.
There was no sunrise inside Facility Forty-Seven. Time moved only because displays changed and workers grew more exhausted.
Near the end of the shift, Liam crossed junction twelve and found Marcus kneeling beneath the open ventilation panel. The damaged bearing rested on the floor beside him.
Marcus looked at Liam's fresh bandage. "I told you not to lose the other hand."
He held his hand up as best as he could. "Nope, it's still attached."
"A remarkable success then."
Liam glanced at the new bearing inside the vent. "You replaced it."
"You were right. Another few shifts and the fan would have torn itself apart."
Marcus climbed down and wiped grease across his uniform. "What happened to you?"
"Conveyor nine." Liam said.
Marcus glanced down at his hand. "I'm guessing the machine won?"
Liam nodded. "Temporarily."
A tone sounded through the corridor before Marcus could respond.
The calm female voice returned through the speakers.
"Night shift has concluded. All personnel scheduled for Awakening assessment will report to Residential Preparation in three hours. Failure to report will result in immediate detainment."
Workers slowed throughout the corridor.
Even those not scheduled for the ceremony understood what the announcement meant. By the next shift, every eighteen-year-old in Facility Forty-Seven would have been judged by the Origin Well.
Marcus looked toward the speaker.
His half-smile did not return.
"Three hours," he said quietly.
Liam stared at the fresh white bandage around his palm.
For ten years, Facility Forty-Seven had decided where he slept, when he ate, what work he performed, and how much pain his body was permitted to endure before the cost was deducted from his food.
In three hours, something older than the government would look inside him.
Liam did not know whether it would reveal a path to freedom or give the facility a stronger chain.
The machinery continued roaring behind the walls.
This time, even Liam could not hear what was coming.
The final second disappeared.
Heavy locks withdrew inside the security doors with a succession of metallic impacts. Warning lights changed from blue to white, and the doors separated along the center, releasing a wave of heat that rolled across the waiting workers.
The machinery beyond them roared without pause.
Liam Vale stepped forward with the night shift.
Facility Forty-Seven had been built deep enough beneath the mountain that no worker knew where the industrial levels ended. Corridors crossed through immense chambers filled with pipes, turbines, refining drums, and processing engines assembled from several generations of government technology. Some machines were older than the workers assigned to maintain them. Others had been constructed around materials recovered from portal instances and behaved according to principles no ordinary mechanic fully understood.
Everything vibrated.
The floor trembled beneath Liam's boots. Steam hissed through overhead pipes, warning sirens sounded in distant sectors, and interlocking gears struck one another with enough force to drown out conversation. White lights shone through a permanent haze of heat and metallic dust.
A guard stood beside the open doors with a slate in one hand.
"Numbers visible," he ordered.
Workers adjusted their coats so the identification patches could be seen. Liam passed without raising his head.
"Forty-seven, two-one-eight-six," the guard called.
Liam stopped.
"Machinery repair, Processing Sector Three. Conveyor assembly nine."
"Yes, sir."
The guard marked the assignment without looking at him. "Production interruption is currently six minutes beyond allowance. Restore operation before the next processing cycle."
Liam glanced toward the corridor leading to Sector Three. "Do we know why it stopped?"
"You were assigned to determine that."
The guard's tone made the warning clear. Questions were tolerated only when they shortened a repair.
Liam nodded and continued.
Marcus walked beside him until the corridor divided. A red line painted across the floor led toward the ventilation network, while a yellow line descended toward machinery processing.
Marcus adjusted the equipment bag hanging from his shoulder. "Conveyor nine again?"
Liam nodded.
"That machine hates you."
"It hates everyone."
"Yes, but the two of you have history."
A guard on the nearest platform turned his head toward them.
Marcus immediately faced forward. His humor vanished beneath the expression all workers learned to wear around authority: attentive, obedient, and empty.
At the junction, Marcus moved toward the red corridor. "Try not to lose the other hand," he murmured.
Liam flexed the fingers beneath the wrap covering his injured palm. "Fix the bearing at junction twelve."
Marcus glanced back. "You heard that?"
"Six shifts ago."
"And you waited until now to tell me?"
"You were not assigned to it six shifts ago."
Marcus shook his head. "One day, your concern for me is going to become overwhelming."
They separated before another guard could accuse them of delaying their assignments.
Liam descended alone.
Processing Sector Three occupied a cavernous industrial chamber divided into elevated platforms. Conveyor systems crossed above one another like iron rivers, carrying sealed containers from portal-residue intake stations toward purification drums. Thick observation windows protected the central control station from heat and accidental Essence discharge.
Conveyor assembly nine remained motionless.
Its belt stretched across nearly half the chamber, loaded with black containment cases marked by rank, recovery team, and portal origin. The cases were designed to prevent the materials inside from affecting the facility during transport. Even through the seals, Liam could smell the faint metallic sweetness of portal residue.
Four workers waited beside the disabled assembly. Another had already removed one of the exterior panels, exposing a dense arrangement of gears and drive shafts.
The repair supervisor met Liam at the maintenance platform.
"You are late," the supervisor said.
Liam looked toward the shift clock mounted above the chamber. Less than four minutes had passed since the security doors opened.
"I reported directly from the equipment station."
"The assembly has been inactive for eleven minutes. Every minute is lost production."
Liam did not point out that the machine had failed before his shift began. Correcting a supervisor was rarely worth the satisfaction.
"What happened before it stopped?" Liam asked.
The supervisor gestured toward the exposed machinery. "The primary drive locked. Reset failed twice."
"Did it stop immediately?"
"It stopped. Repair it."
Liam crouched beside the open panel.
Heat pressed against his face. The primary drive gear was intact. No teeth were broken, and the surrounding lubricant had not darkened from friction. He examined the emergency brake, the drive chain, and the pressure-assisted rotation system.
Nothing appeared damaged.
The supervisor folded his arms. "Do you require assistance?"
"No."
"Then why is it still inactive?"
Liam ignored him and placed one hand against the metal housing.
The machine's surface carried vibrations from every operating system in the sector. Most workers felt only a continuous tremor. Liam separated the patterns instinctively. The purification drums created a slow pulse. The upper conveyors produced a lighter, repetitive rhythm. Coolant pumps beat beneath them in rapid sequences of four.
Something inside assembly nine answered with an uneven knock.
Liam leaned closer.
Knock.
Pause.
Knock.
A weaker third impact followed from farther inside the housing.
"The primary drive did not lock," Liam said.
The supervisor's mouth tightened. "The control station registered drive resistance."
"It registered resistance because the secondary shaft is pulling against it."
"The secondary shaft was inspected."
"While the system was inactive?"
"Yes."
Liam looked toward the containers resting on the conveyor belt. "The fault only appears under load."
The supervisor stepped closer. "The control station identified the primary drive."
"The control station is wrong."
Silence formed around the maintenance platform despite the machinery thundering throughout the chamber.
Workers did not tell supervisors that government equipment was wrong.
The supervisor stared at Liam's identification patch. "Repeat that."
Liam considered withdrawing the statement. An apology might prevent disciplinary review, but it would not repair the machine. Worse, another reset could force the damaged shaft to break completely.
"The resistance sensor measures pressure at the primary drive," Liam explained. "It cannot determine where that pressure originates. The secondary shaft is misaligned. Every time the belt carries weight, it pulls the primary drive sideways."
The supervisor looked toward the exposed gears. "There is no visible misalignment."
"It is behind the inner housing."
"Then you cannot see it."
"I can hear it."
One of the nearby workers lowered his eyes, concealing a reaction.
The supervisor's expression hardened. "Open the inner housing."
Liam removed two securing bolts and reached for the third. His wrapped palm protested as he turned the tool, but he kept his grip steady. When the final bolt came free, he loosened the metal plate without removing it completely.
A sharper metallic knock sounded from behind it.
The supervisor heard it this time.
Liam slid the plate aside.
The secondary shaft had shifted less than the width of a finger. A retaining collar remained attached, but a hairline fracture divided one side of the fastening ring. Under a full load, the collar would bend outward and drag the shaft from alignment. While inactive, it settled nearly into its proper position.
The supervisor leaned down to inspect it.
"How long?" he asked.
"Ten minutes to replace the ring. Longer if the shaft has warped."
"You have seven."
Liam began working.
The replacement ring was heavier than the original, taken from a storage rack meant for an older assembly model. It would fit, but only after the inner bracket was adjusted. Liam removed the damaged part, cleaned the fastening groove, and tested the shaft manually.
It resisted halfway through its rotation.
Warped.
He looked toward the clock. Five minutes remained before the next processing cycle.
Replacing the entire shaft would take at least an hour.
Liam reached deeper into the housing and felt along the supporting bracket. The metal was warm enough to burn through the cloth covering his palm.
"What are you doing?" the supervisor demanded.
"The shaft is bent."
"Then replace it."
"There is no time."
"Failure to restore the assembly will be included in your evaluation."
Liam found the adjustment bolts behind the bracket. "I can offset the support angle."
"That repair is not in the maintenance procedure."
"It will hold until the processing cycle ends."
"And after that?"
"We replace the shaft."
The supervisor looked toward the guard station overlooking the sector. Production failures were punished from the top downward. If the assembly missed another cycle, the supervisor would be blamed before Liam.
"Do it," he said.
Liam loosened the bracket.
The shaft dropped suddenly.
His injured hand slipped between the housing and the support plate. Metal crushed against his wrapped palm, reopening the cut beneath it. Pain shot through his wrist.
He pulled free before the mechanism could trap his fingers.
Blood spread through the cloth.
The supervisor saw it. "Can you continue?"
Liam knew what the question meant. Reporting the injury would halt the repair and send him for medical assessment. The treatment would be deducted from his ration allowance.
"Yes."
He tightened the bracket at the corrected angle, installed the replacement ring, and rotated the shaft again. The resistance had lessened, but it had not disappeared.
Two minutes remained.
Liam studied the connected gears. Adjusting the bracket farther would reduce friction, but too much movement would place the shaft beyond the drive gear's center. The assembly might function for several minutes before tearing itself apart.
He closed his eyes.
The sector became sound.
Turbines thundered beneath the floor. Chains traveled across distant tracks. Pressure valves opened and sealed. Somewhere above him, a loose panel rattled every fourth rotation.
Beneath it all, the damaged shaft produced a faint scrape.
Liam adjusted the bracket a fraction.
The scrape softened.
He moved it again.
The sound vanished.
"Secure it," Liam said.
A worker beside him tightened the outer bolts while Liam held the bracket in position. The supervisor moved to the control panel.
"One minute," the supervisor warned.
Liam replaced the inner housing, closed the exterior panel, and stepped away.
"Reset."
The supervisor entered the command.
Conveyor assembly nine shuddered. Warning lights flashed along its length as the primary drive engaged. The loaded belt moved several inches, stopped, and then lurched forward again.
The workers watched the exposed section of the machine.
A deep vibration traveled through the floor.
For a moment, Liam thought the shaft had slipped.
Then the belt settled into a steady rhythm.
The sealed containment cases moved toward the purification drums. The control station changed the assembly's status from red to white.
Production resumed with twelve seconds remaining.
The supervisor released a slow breath.
Liam looked down at the blood soaking through his hand wrap.
"You will report for medical inspection," the supervisor said.
"It is superficial."
"That determination belongs to medical staff."
"Medical inspection will remove me from assignment."
"You have completed the repair."
"The shaft still needs to be replaced."
The supervisor watched the containment cases travel along the belt. "Day shift can replace it."
"They will restart the assembly without reading the repair note."
"Then enter the warning correctly."
Liam knew how Facility Forty-Seven handled temporary solutions. Someone would see that the conveyor was operating and decide a full repair could wait. The damaged shaft might last another cycle. It might last ten.
Eventually, it would fail while loaded.
"When it begins knocking again, stop it immediately," Liam said. "Do not reset it."
The supervisor turned toward him. "Are you issuing instructions?"
"No, sir."
"Then report to medical."
Liam lowered his head. "Yes, sir."
He left the platform as the processing cycle continued behind him.
The medical station consisted of four examination bays separated by hanging partitions. A worker sat inside the first bay with burns crossing one side of his neck. Another held a cloth against his mouth while blood dripped between his fingers.
A medical attendant removed Liam's hand wrap.
The reopened cut crossed the center of his palm. Bruising had already begun around it.
"How did this occur?" she asked.
"Machinery housing shifted during repair."
She raised her eyebrows at him. "What about protective procedure?"
"They were followed."
She looked at him without expression. "Machinery does not shift when protective procedure is followed."
Liam remained silent.
The attendant cleaned the wound, applied a sealing compound, and wrapped his hand with a fresh bandage. The process took less than three minutes.
"Treatment will be recorded against your food allowance," she said. "Reduced ration begins next shift."
Liam expected nothing else.
When he returned to the industrial floor, he was reassigned to minor repairs for the remainder of the night. He replaced two pressure gauges, cleared metal fragments from a cooling intake, and tightened the loose panel he had heard while repairing conveyor nine.
Hours passed beneath artificial light.
There was no sunrise inside Facility Forty-Seven. Time moved only because displays changed and workers grew more exhausted.
Near the end of the shift, Liam crossed junction twelve and found Marcus kneeling beneath the open ventilation panel. The damaged bearing rested on the floor beside him.
Marcus looked at Liam's fresh bandage. "I told you not to lose the other hand."
He held his hand up as best as he could. "Nope, it's still attached."
"A remarkable success then."
Liam glanced at the new bearing inside the vent. "You replaced it."
"You were right. Another few shifts and the fan would have torn itself apart."
Marcus climbed down and wiped grease across his uniform. "What happened to you?"
"Conveyor nine." Liam said.
Marcus glanced down at his hand. "I'm guessing the machine won?"
Liam nodded. "Temporarily."
A tone sounded through the corridor before Marcus could respond.
The calm female voice returned through the speakers.
"Night shift has concluded. All personnel scheduled for Awakening assessment will report to Residential Preparation in three hours. Failure to report will result in immediate detainment."
Workers slowed throughout the corridor.
Even those not scheduled for the ceremony understood what the announcement meant. By the next shift, every eighteen-year-old in Facility Forty-Seven would have been judged by the Origin Well.
Marcus looked toward the speaker.
His half-smile did not return.
"Three hours," he said quietly.
Liam stared at the fresh white bandage around his palm.
For ten years, Facility Forty-Seven had decided where he slept, when he ate, what work he performed, and how much pain his body was permitted to endure before the cost was deducted from his food.
In three hours, something older than the government would look inside him.
Liam did not know whether it would reveal a path to freedom or give the facility a stronger chain.
The machinery continued roaring behind the walls.
This time, even Liam could not hear what was coming.