So, AI was involved. It was only logical that as technology advanced, artificial intelligence would eventually become a staple in human society. If every detail of a person’s life, from birth to death, could be recorded, an algorithm could predict their next ten years with startling accuracy. In a post-apocalyptic world, where AI reached its zenith, humans were no more than a string of code in its vast database.

From what I’d read in some crazy sci-fi novels, AIs were usually the ultimate villains.

I couldn’t be sure where this Prometheus AI stood.

Was it neutral?

Why had “it” chosen me?

Could it have something to do with my host’s death?

I asked, “Can I refuse?”

With all the money I’d made, I could easily live comfortably without dealing with contaminants. There was clearly something deep and dark about this job—AI manipulation, the power plays within the Cleaning Center. Perhaps even connected to the original Nina’s death. It seemed unwise to jump headfirst into something this risky.

Emily looked surprised. She hadn’t expected that question.

Quickly regaining her composure, she replied with a gentle smile, “Yes, you could. But you’d have to go through our confidentiality protocols.”

“But,” she added, “I’d suggest you stay. With your current savings, you could only afford one dose of genetic treatment. You couldn't last a full course.”

From her perspective, this was the best possible job for me—good pay, and I seemed to handle it well. There was no logical reason to refuse.

“We won’t force you,” she said with a final, polite smile. “Looking forward to your decision.”

---

When I changed into my regular clothes and left the Cleaning Center, the sun was setting. Outside, the incinerators roared, consuming the endless stream of trash trucks hauling waste from all 260 districts of the Federation to District 103.

The towering incinerator loomed, built in the shape of a giant robot, almost as tall as a skyscraper. Standing beneath it, you felt like an ant beside a colossus. Supposedly, it had once been a wartime defense robot, repurposed to handle waste after it was “retired.”

The flames burned day and night, casting a beacon-like glow across the barren landscape. Watching the blazing furnace, I couldn’t help but admit—it was strangely beautiful.

It hit me, then, how deeply I’d fallen into this world.

A world of advanced technology and contaminated wastelands. A world racing forward in science but teetering on the edge of decay.

Orderly on the one side, chaotic on the other.

And I had no idea what's outside of those walls.

After sending my rent money to Mrs. Wayland and paying some bills, I checked my balance: 671,200 credits remaining.

With that done, I didn’t go home. Instead, I made my way to an abandoned garbage facility—the first place I’d seen upon awakening in this world, 15 kilometers from my apartment.

The place had been deserted, and by the time I got there, darkness had settled, leaving only faint traces of light.

The smell of mold hit me as I entered.

Without a flashlight, I took out the employee wristband Emily had given me. Fortunately, it had a built-in light, which glowed a warm yellow. It could even be adjusted between a spotlight and a floodlight.

Scanning the room, I noted the piles of scrap metal and discarded robots lying in the shadows. In my original world, metal like this would’ve been recycled or sold for a decent sum. Here, however, the junk was piled so high it nearly reached the ceiling.

I recalled the jagged metal shard that had injured my abdomen—about the size of my hand, with a serrated edge.

Whoever killed my host clearly had grabbed whatever was at hand here to finish the job.

The cause of death was easy to deduce. But the motive?

She had been a 19-year-old mechanical engineering graduate, a Fifth-Class “defective” citizen with no money or resources. Nothing worth killing for, except maybe her mental value.

But I couldn’t be sure if my high mental value was hers, mine, or something the System had added.

Maybe someone had already cleaned up the scene—no blood stains, no weapon left behind.

After I’d woken up, I’d stumbled nearly a kilometer away to an automated vending machine to buy a high-strength healing shot.

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

I settled down on the spot where the original Nina had died, trying to piece together that fateful day.

That day had been chaotic. I had had too much to process: the reincarnation, the looming death, the System...

Looking up, I noticed the old ceiling of the garbage facility, riddled with holes. She must have lain here, in a pool of blood, staring up at the acid-rain-filled sky, slowly waiting for death to come.

I sat there for a while, but nothing came to me.

It felt almost absurd—like I was trying to play Sherlock Holmes without his mind palace, unable to summon the memory.

Just as I was about to get up, I froze. There, in the corner, were faint bloodstains, visible from my low angle.

Staying still, I peered closer. Between a heap of metal and the wall, there were faint, crooked letters scratched into the wall.

Sitting wouldn’t work—she must have been lying down. I crouched low, careful not to disturb the remnants, and brushed away some of the metal to see the wall better. There, scrawled messily, was a single line:

“The end… is near. We are all… ants.”

A chill crept up my spine as I read it aloud. “The end is near. We are all ants.”

My mind flashed to the fish-headed creature's final words.

“The end is coming, —the end is coming.”

“You’re just like me.”

“You… you’ll end up just like me… just like… me…”

At the time, I’d assumed those words were just the effects of mental contamination. But now, I wondered if I’d underestimated the fish-headed creature’s message.

When you put it in more refined terms, its words were the same: “The end is near. We are all ants.”

It made sense for a contaminated being to utter such a line, but why would those same words be written where the original Nina had died?

How had she died, exactly?

Was her death connected to Prometheus? Or was it simply because she was a defective, with no family or connections, already thrown away in District 103’s trash heap?

If I hadn’t reincarnated into her body, her death would have gone unnoticed. Even if she were found, she would’ve been tossed into the incinerator, and no one would remember her.

Her death would have been utterly “clean.”

My first impulse was to activate my employee wristband and access the Cleaning Center’s internal network.

Emily said my footage had gone viral internally. If the fish-headed creature’s bizarre speech had been recorded, there might be discussions about it on the forum.

The wristband prompted me for my employee ID.

Joining the Cleaning Center of District 103 was becoming a necessity.

I’d always believed in my survival principle: if you can’t beat them, join them.

Without hesitation, I chose a role, quickly filled in the registration form, and logged in successfully.

The wristband emitted a congratulatory mechanical voice: “Welcome onboard.”

After handling a few onboarding formalities, I skimmed through the details and entered the Cleaning Center’s public forum.

The pinned post at the top read, “Shocking News! New recruit with a mental value of 1200! We’ve got ourselves an S-Class national treasure!”*

“…”

The next pinned post was, *“Training materials for internal distribution only: Full footage of the Class D contamination zone’s final train cleanup.”*

I opened the video, watching the footage from my and Daniel’s helmet cams spliced together. Skipping ahead, I found the part where the fish-headed creature and I fought on the tracks.

My helmet had cracked, the feed filled with static. Then, just as I kicked the fish-headed creature onto the tracks, it was crushed.

Its voice echoed: “They thought I was… too delicate to handle it.”

“Am I too delicate?”

In the next scene, I would be standing on the platform, axe in hand, as the fish-headed creature crawled toward me to deliver its “end” prophecy.

But that part was gone. All that remained was the scene of the train running it over.

The creature died, and spores floated into the air.

I watched the footage again, just to be sure. There was nothing about “the end.”

I was certain of what I’d heard, but it seemed someone had edited the footage.

Who could have done this? Prometheus?

Was it trying to help me? But why?

*Ding.*

A notification popped up in my mind.

【Congratulations! Side quest triggered: Uncover the Truth Behind Your Death. This is a long-term quest that can run parallel with other side quests. Rewards will be significant. Failure will result in Health Value dropping to zero. Current progress: 5%. Keep up the good work.】

“…”

I should have known better than to come to this garbage dump.

This lousy System—it didn’t even mention the quest rewards but threatened me with a zero Health penalty for failure?

Wait. This System seemed to align with reality.

If my “death” was connected to Prometheus’s reasons for choosing me, then someone might have indeed tried to kill me. And if I hadn’t died, they might try again.

So, I had to discover the truth preemptively before that happened—otherwise, if they succeeded in killing me this time, I really would hit zero Health.

To find out more, I’d need full access to the Cleaning Center, to meet Prometheus, and maybe encounter another contaminant.

Great. I’d have more cleaning job to do.

After taking photos of the bloody scrawl from every angle with my secondary device, I carefully scraped it off with a metal shard.

As I was “destroying the evidence, I heard a faint noise outside.

Creeeak—

“Who’s there?” I instinctively grabbed a metal rod, tensing up. Was someone here to eliminate me?

A small robot emerged, moving slowly into the room. It was short, round, and raised its arms in surrender.

“…”

This wasn’t some high-tech assassin. It looked like an old navigation bot from my world’s shopping malls.

Lowering the rod, I asked, “Fifth-Class citizen?”

The robot nodded.

Of course. District 103 was a rundown, chaotic place. Anying here would likely be defective.

I smirked. “I’m one too.”

The robot was too elimentary to have a speech function. It’s screen displayed two characters: “Trashy Trash.”

That’s its name?

Feeling playful, I said, “Nice to meet you, I’m Chasy Chase.”

The bot’s screen showed a smiling face. Definitely a service bot—this little guy was thrilled.

Suddenly, I had an idea. “Do you pick up trash around here?”

Given its name, it was probably designed as a trash-cleaning bot, but some defect had landed it here.

It nodded again.

“Seen anyone suspicious?” I asked.

Its screen blinked: “You.”

“…Aside from me?”

“No one.”

That figured. If someone had come here to kill, they’d avoid leaving witnesses.

“Any security cams nearby?” I asked, hoping.

“No.”

Well, that was a bust. This place was an abandoned garbage dump—no one would bother with cameras.

As my hopes for a lead dimmed, Trash Bot typed, *“But… robots might have cameras.”*

“Hmm?” My interest piqued.

It typed out, “Robots’ cameras are always on by default.”

Most robots come equipped with cameras. Even if they’re broken, their cameras—their “eyes”—often still work. So, there might be a chance that one of the countless junked bots here had recorded everything.

My eyes lit up. “Can you help me find one?”

Trashy Trash replied, “No. Too many.”

Given the mountains of garbage here, finding a single functional camera, extracting data, and analyzing it could take months.

“…”

“Hey, Trashy babe,” I crouched down to meet its level, holding the metal rod and grinning. “Want to make a deal?”

Trashy Trash's screen displayed a curious, “?”