If the observation room was unsettling for some, with the constant fear of being watched, for me, it felt more like a retreat.

The next day, I didn’t wake up until 4 PM. To my surprise, the self-service area was still open.

The cafeteria was nearly empty—just the way I liked it. No one was around to compete with me for food.

I grabbed a tray and circled the station twice, sampling everything like someone who hadn’t seen food in a hundred years.

As I carried my tray out and looked for a place to sit, I immediately spotted Emily.

She was wearing towering heels and holding a stack of files. When she saw me, she flashed a smile that showed all eight of her teeth.

“Hello, Nina.”

I froze for a second, not sure why, but a feeling of awkwardness washed over me—like I’d been caught doing something wrong by a school teacher.

“You go ahead with your meal,” she said, “I can wait.”

I sat down with my tray, and Emily took a seat across from me, still smiling.

I awkwardly took a bite of bread while she stared at me a little too intently.

“Uh… why don't you go ahead with what you need to say?”

I didn’t exactly enjoy the look in her eyes—like she was a doctor about to break bad news.

She had that kind, but somehow terrifying, “nurturing” vibe.

“Well,” Emily began, opening up a folder, “Your data collection report is ready.”

I mumbled as I chewed, not really understanding the significance.

“You want to see it yourself?” Emily asked.

I felt a sudden sense of discomfort—was I dying or something? She looked at me like I was a terminal case.

I shrugged, chewing slowly. “Just tell me.”

Emily cleared her throat and began, “Your mental value is impressive—1200. That puts you in Class S.”

I nodded, unimpressed. I didn’t fully grasp the gravity of it, but I asked, “What about Daniel?”

I needed a frame of reference.

“Originally, 306, but after entering the contamination zone, it’s risen to about 400.”

Mental value can increase?

Emily explained, “The more exposure you have to contaminants, the higher your mental value can go.”

I thought about it for a moment—it was like boosting courage through getting scared. The more you face, the less it bothers you, until it builds you up in the process.

“Your number is rare,” Emily continued. “You’re the only Class S in District 103.”

I frowned. This wasn’t good news.

In my experience, standing out too much often meant you didn’t last long.

Emily pulled out a detailed report of my data, her expression now apologetic. “But there’s a catch.”

My heart skipped a beat.

“I’m afraid your physical data is... not great.”

Just as I’d suspected. Emily’s eyes were sympathetic as she placed the report in front of me. “Without further intervention, you might not survive the year.”

I stared at the report, completely unbothered, then continued eating.

“Oh.”

I had thought it was something major.

Emily blinked, confused at my indifference. “Aren’t you worried?”

It was just like last time—every time she tried to talk to me, half of her carefully prepared words were useless.

She was clearly expecting more of a reaction from me, but I had none to give.

She shifted in her seat, trying to adjust. “Unfortunately, this is common for Fifth-Class citizens.”

I knew the basic concept of citizen class divisions, so I asked, “How is that decided?”

Emily paused, realizing I was lacking basic knowledge.

“Well, after the apocalypse, radiation led to large-scale biological mutations. We lost 80% of our land, and the Federation built high walls to protect against the monsters outside. But resources are tight, so we conduct mass screenings to categorize citizens based on their usefulness to the Federation.”

“First-Class citizens are natural-born humans, whose genetic makeup must be preserved. Second-Class citizens are genetically engineered, Third-Class are clones with short lifespans. Fourth-Class citizens are machines.”

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

“Fifth-Class citizens,” she added, “are the defective products. They have severe genetic defects, and medical treatment is too expensive to cure them. Most end up living in the trash zones of District 103.”

So, that’s how it was.

District 103 was essentially the Federation’s garbage dump, and most of its residents were defective.

For these defective people, survival could mean undergoing genetic modifications, but the cost was astronomical. Most simply waited to die.

I wasn’t really bothered by the talk of my low physical stats. The System’s panel had already made it clear.

It’s not like I didn’t know I was at death’s door—I just didn’t care much.

Besides, I had a bit of time left. The system had given me a whole year to do something with my life.

Still, I was more concerned about why my predecessor had died so mysteriously.

Why had they gone to the garbage disposal site in the acid rain alone? Why was she injured, with a piece of broken metal lodged in her abdomen?

Who wanted her dead?

Was the person she went to meet the one who killed her?

It seemed like the person was supposed to “save” her, but in the end, they were the ones who betrayed her.

But now, with Emily saying my mental value was S-Class, was that my fate sealed?

I snapped out of my thoughts, and Emily continued. “I’ve reported everything, and your data is up-to-date. Originally, we thought the military would take you, but there’s been no word yet. For now, you’re still part of District 103’s cleaning center.”

I nodded, wondering if I had missed my shot.

But Emily was still talking. “Since I reported your condition, everyone’s been trying to ‘claim’ you.”

“Claim me?” I asked, confused.

“Yeah,” Emily replied. “Your helmet recorded the scenes of you killing contaminants. It’s been passed around internally and is now circulating among departments.”

“...Seriously?”

That was a bit humiliating.

“The Operations and Cleaning departments both want you. The Operations department is the Hunters, and the Cleaning department is... well, cleaners.”

She grinned. “It’s good news for you. I’ve got contracts from both departments. You get to choose where you want to go.”

I was receiving two job offers at once? A Hunter or a Cleaner?

Emily leaned in, “From my perspective, the Hunters get higher pay, and you have more access to genetic enhancements. The Cleaning center’s genetics are a little cheaper, but you can still get your treatment here.”

To survive, I’d need to go through genetic modifications or become a cyborg.

If I truly wanted to live, I could upload my consciousness to the cloud and get a prosthetic body to act for me. But that option was ridiculously expensive, with high annual cloud service fees.

Emily leaned back and said, “There’s also a Sixth-Class citizen option.”

“Sixth-Class?” I didn’t know I was at the very bottom of the food chain.

Emily explained, “The deeper you get into contamination zones, the more likely you’ll awaken or mutate.”

Awaken? Mutate?

Superpowers?

Everything started sounding a bit too mystical, but it did match the “Mutation Direction” and “Mutation Level” I had seen on my system panel.

Emily continued, “Sixth-Class citizens are essentially people who’ve merged with contaminants. They can use the powers of the contaminants, or they’re just contaminated beings who’ve managed to retain their sanity.”

They were powerful but dangerous, with a very low chance of retaining control.

I asked, “What are the odds?”

Emily answered, “It’s rare. About one in ten thousand.”

I sighed. That felt like a lottery.

Emily added seriously, “There’s a chance you could mutate.”

People with higher mental values were more likely to mutate, as they could withstand contamination while staying sane.

My physical health might be low, but with my mental value, who knows what could happen in the future.

Though the military had passed on me, District 103 felt that I might be walking down a very unique path.

Emily said, “A lot of people in the center are Sixth-Class citizens. You might want to meet them one day.”

I nodded, still processing the information.

Emily got up, handing me a file and a box. “Your data collection is done. You’re free to leave whenever you want. Go home, think about which department you want to join.”

She passed me the employee wristband and orientation materials, which I’d need to go through before someone would come pick up the contract.

“Your bonuses and contamination bounties have been approved,” Emily added casually. “Remember to check your account.”

I opened my secondary mind, and the latest pay statement popped up:

[Federal Cleaning Center Salary Statement: Basic Salary 5000 New Coins credited to your account]

Accumulated Contamination Spore Collection (145) at a D-Class rating: 500 New Coins per spore, total 72,500 New Coins credited to your account.

Accumulated Contamination Elimination (26), clearing a D-Class contamination zone: 20,000 New Coins per contamination, total 520,000 New Coins credited to your account.

This cleaning team completed a cross-rank mission, so there’s a 50,000 New Coin reward.

Compensation for hazardous work due to misclassification of contamination zone: 50,000 New Coins.

Data Collection Attendance Payment: 15,000 New Coins.

Total Salary: 702,500 New Coins.

Current Balance: 703,200 New Coins.]

In one night, I had turned into a wealthy woman.

I stared at the zeros, double-checking to make sure my account balance had indeed skyrocketed by over 700,000 New Coins.

Just yesterday, I was a broke girl, struggling to pay rent with only 700 New Coins to my name. Now, I was practically rolling in it.

The only problem was... should I choose the Cleaning Department or the Operations Department?

It was a tough choice—one high-paying job or one even higher-paying job?

Talk about a “humble brag.”

I almost let the money go to my head, but I kept my focus. Before I signed anything, I had to ask Emily a question I’d been curious about for a while.

As she started to leave, I asked, “Can I ask you something?”

Emily smiled politely. “Go ahead.”

I’d been wondering about this for a while.

I’d always been passive during our conversations, rarely asking questions.

But now, with all this new information swirling in my head, I had to ask.

“How did I get this job?”

I remembered applying through a website, and then Emily had only asked me two questions before sending me off for an “internship.”

The process seemed odd.

First, this job was high-paying. I’d experienced it firsthand.

Second, this was clearly a job that involved contamination exposure, which meant a certain level of confidentiality.

It didn’t make sense that anyone could just sign up and go through a contamination “trial.”

There wasn’t much information available about the Cleaning Center. Before I joined, I had searched the internet, but there was barely anything. Everyone thought it was just a garbage company.

Something about this offer felt like it had been... chosen for me.

And then there was the contamination zone misclassification on my first day—though Emily never explained that part.

I couldn’t help but feel that this was no accident.

Emily paused in the doorway, her figure half-shrouded in shadow and half-bathed in light.

She didn’t answer immediately.

I thought maybe I’d asked something I shouldn’t have. Was she about to have me silenced?

After a long moment, she looked back at me, her expression unreadable.

“It was big data that chose you.”

“Big data?”

I had some familiarity with big data—before the apocalypse, it was used to push products or get you to buy things.

But how advanced had it become in the post-apocalyptic world? I couldn’t even begin to imagine.

Emily smiled lightly. “It’s called Prometheus. It handles all the data for the Center, including recruitment.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Everyone in the 103 District Cleaning Center was selected through it.”

She stared at me intently. “Including me, and you.”