Twelve hours of work. Eight hours of sleep. Four hours before the cycle repeats.

The numbers swim in my head as I wake, blinking against the dim glow of the lumen-strips lining the ceiling. My body feels sluggish, my limbs aching from yesterday’s exercise. A good ache. A reminder that I did something. That I’m not just another cog in the Scriptorum’s machine.

I sit up on my cot, stretching my stiff arms. The room is the same as before—cramped, gray, lifeless. The air is thick with recycled breath and the faint metallic tang of rust. I exhale, shaking off the last vestiges of sleep.

First priority: food.

The Scriptorum rations are barely enough to keep a man functioning, let alone thriving. A bowl of protein paste and a cup of water aren’t going to cut it. If I want to push myself further, I need more than the bare minimum.

I pull my satchel closer, fingers brushing against the few chits I’ve saved over the years. Not much, but enough. I’ve lived frugally, spent only when necessary. Now, survival demands I loosen my grip.

Hive markets aren’t friendly places, but they’re the only place to get what I need.

I sling the satchel over my shoulder and step out into the corridor.

---

The mid-hive never sleeps.

Even in the off-hours, the air thrums with the distant roar of industry. Machines clank and whir in unseen manufactorums, and the ever-present hum of power conduits vibrates through the walls. The corridors are alive with movement—workers shuffling to and from shifts, enforcers in dull black armor making their rounds, merchants hauling their meager wares to the nearest trading hub.

I blend into the crowd, just another gray-robed scribe moving with purpose. No one spares me a second glance. Good.

The market is located three levels down, crammed into a series of interconnected corridors repurposed from old storage bays. It stinks of sweat, grease, and the acrid scent of burning tallow. A tangle of stalls and makeshift tables line the walls, traders barking out offers as people weave through the narrow paths.

"Fresh corpse starch, half ration price!"

"Grox fat, real grox fat! None of that synthetic filth!"

"Refined nutrient bars—premium quality, straight from the upper levels!"

Lies. Mostly. But some of it is edible, and that’s what matters.

I make my way toward a stall run by an older man, his face lined with age and grime. A faded red cloth is draped over his table, displaying an assortment of ration packs and questionable-looking meat strips. His eyes flick toward me as I approach.

"What’s your pick, lad?" His voice is rough, worn by years of shouting over the market’s chaos.

I glance over the selection, weighing my options. The ration packs are reliable but dull—dried starch cakes, protein gel, nothing special. The meat strips, on the other hand, are a gamble. Could be grox, could be rat, could be worse.

But I need protein.

I tap the meat strips. "How much?"

"Two chits a piece."

I narrow my eyes. "One each."

He scoffs. "I don’t run a charity."

I hold his gaze. "And I’m not an idiot. This isn’t fresh. The edges are drying out, which means it’s been sitting here for at least a few cycles. You’ll be lucky to sell it before it starts stinking up your stall."

His lip twitches. Then he grunts, waving a hand. "Fine. One chit each. But don’t come crying if it kills you."

I slide him the chits and take the strips, tucking them into my satchel.

One transaction down.

As I turn to leave, a commotion breaks out nearby—a young woman, barely older than me, being shoved back from a stall. Her clothes are tattered, her face hollow with hunger.

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"Get lost," the merchant growls. "No chits, no food."

She hesitates, eyeing the pile of ration bars on his table. Her hands twitch at her sides, fingers curling. I recognize that look. Desperation.

The merchant sees it too. His hand drops to his belt, where a stub-pistol rests in a cracked leather holster.

The tension is thick. The woman wavers, then backs away, vanishing into the crowd.

Just another moment in the hive.

I shake my head and move on.

---

The walk back to my hab is uneventful. People pass by without looking, lost in their own struggles. A few enforcers lean against a rusted wall, batons resting across their laps, watching the crowd with unreadable expressions. Not looking for trouble, but ready for it.

I keep my head down. No reason to draw their attention.

When I finally reach my hab unit, I shut the door and let out a slow breath. The room is still the same—cold, lifeless. But it’s mine.

I pull the meat strips from my satchel and take a cautious bite. Salty. Tough. Stringy. Not fresh, but not spoiled. Could be worse.

I eat quickly, washing it down with a sip of stale water from my flask. It’s not much, but it’s better than the Scriptorum’s rations.

Now, the real work begins.

I strip off my robe, leaving only the sweat-stained undershirt and trousers. My body is still sore from yesterday, but that doesn’t matter. Pain is just another problem to push through.

Squats first.

The first twenty are easy. By thirty, my legs start to burn. By fifty, they tremble under my weight. I keep going.

Push-ups next. My arms protest immediately, but I grit my teeth and force them through the motions. Ten. Twenty. Fifty.

Sit-ups. Lunges. Every movement is a battle against exhaustion. Sweat drips onto the cold metal floor. My breaths come fast and ragged, but I don’t stop.

Not until I’ve pushed my body to its limit.

When I finally collapse onto the cot, my muscles scream in protest. My heart pounds against my ribs, my lungs burning from exertion.

A flicker at the edge of my vision.

I focus.

---

Physique (3.2 → 3.3/10)

---

A small increase. Barely anything. But it’s progress.

I close my eyes, exhaustion pulling me under.

Tomorrow, I’ll do it again.

Because in this world, weakness is death. And I refuse to die in this place.

Not like this.

---

22:54 Terran Standard Time

The hive never truly slept. The shift changes simply altered the rhythm—one set of exhausted workers trudging home while another took their place. The low hum of machinery never stopped, and the scent of sweat, rust, and recycled air was as constant as the flickering lumen-strips overhead.

His muscles still ached from the earlier exertion, but there was no time to dwell on it. His shift at the Scriptorum was beginning, and that meant another twelve hours of mind-numbing transcription. His pace was slower than usual as he made his way through the corridors, surrounded by fellow scribes, all of them moving with the same dull resignation.

The entrance to the Scriptorum was a thick, rusted bulkhead, guarded by a hovering servo-skull. The overseer stood nearby, his augmetic eyes scanning them as they entered. There was no greeting, no acknowledgment—just the silent expectation that they would sit down and begin their work.

And so, he did.

The hours passed in a blur of ink and repetition. Each movement was automatic, his hands moving across the parchment as he copied endless lines of dictated scripture, trade records, and administratum notices. The process was designed to crush the mind, to reduce thought to simple obedience.

But his mind did not obey.

He needed money. He had already spent part of his savings on extra food, and that was not sustainable. Without a steady income, he would soon be back to the bare minimum rations provided by the Administratum. That wasn’t an option. He had felt the difference after eating more, after training his body. He couldn’t afford to slip back.

So, where did he even start?

Theft was an option—an incredibly risky one. The punishments in the hive were severe, and he didn’t have the experience or contacts to pull it off safely.

Contacts... That was another problem. He had no connections. No friends. No favors owed.

That left one option: labor. Real, physical work. The hive was massive, and there were always jobs that needed doing—manual hauling, factory shifts, maintenance work. The problem was finding an opening. Work wasn’t just handed out, especially to scribes.

His hands tensed slightly. He needed to find work. But how?

----

11:04 Terran Standard Time

By the time his shift ended, his body was stiff from sitting, his fingers aching from gripping the stylus. He stepped out of the Scriptorum, the artificial lighting of the hive city’s corridors casting long shadows. He could go back to his hab-unit, eat, and rest.

But that wouldn’t solve anything.

He needed work.

So, instead of taking his usual route back, he changed direction, heading toward the lower tiers of the mid-hive.

This was unfamiliar territory. He had spent years moving between the Scriptorum and his quarters, barely paying attention to the rest of the hive. But now, he forced himself to look.

The deeper he went, the louder everything became. The hum of machinery turned into a near-deafening roar in some areas. The air was thicker, filled with the scent of metal, grease, and unwashed bodies. People moved with purpose—workers, loaders, guild enforcers keeping order.

His first stop was the work boards. They were scattered throughout the hive, simple metal slabs where overseers and work-gangs posted notices. Most were for long-term contracts, requiring guild approval or sponsorship—things he didn’t have. Others were for specialized labor—too specific, too technical.

Still, he scanned every listing, searching for anything he could do.

Nothing.

His frustration built as he moved on. He started watching the laborers instead, looking for openings, listening for anything useful.

He approached a group of haulers unloading crates from a transport rig. They were massive men, their arms thick with muscle, their faces hardened by years of backbreaking labor.

“Who do I talk to for work?” he asked one of them.

The man barely glanced at him. “We don’t need scribes.”

“I can lift.”

A scoff. “You’ll break in half.”

He clenched his jaw. He had expected that response, but it still stung.

He tried again at another loading bay, this time approaching a middle-aged woman directing a group of workers.

“I’m looking for extra work,” he said, keeping his tone steady. “Manual labor.”

She gave him a once-over, then shook her head. “No openings. Try somewhere else.”

This was getting him nowhere.

But he kept going.

By the time an hour passed, he had been rejected half a dozen times. No one wanted to take a chance on him. He wasn’t built like a laborer, and in a place like this, strength mattered more than willingness.

Then, finally, something.

Near the edge of a maintenance sector, he found a group of workers handling cargo shipments—barrels, crates, heavy machinery. They looked understaffed, moving with hurried efficiency.

He didn’t wait for an invitation. He walked straight up to one of the men struggling with a crate and grabbed the other end.

The worker, a wiry man with cybernetic eyes, snapped his head up. “The hell are you doing?”

“Helping,” he grunted, lifting.

For a moment, the worker looked ready to shove him away. But then he simply nodded, shifting his grip. Together, they hauled the crate into place.

A few more workers noticed. One of them, a heavyset man with a mechanical brace on his leg, crossed his arms. “You looking for work?”

“Yes.”

He jerked his head toward a pile of crates. “Fine. Move those. Don’t drop anything. You break it, you pay for it.”

He didn’t hesitate.

The next two hours were grueling. The crates were heavier than he expected, and his muscles screamed in protest, but he kept moving. Every time he wanted to slow down, he pushed harder. Every drop of sweat, every aching limb—it was all proof that he was getting stronger.

By the time the work was done, his arms felt like lead.

The heavyset man tossed him a few chits. “Come back tomorrow if you want more.”

It wasn’t much, but it was something.

As he pocketed the

money and made his way back to his hab-unit, he felt something new.

Satisfaction.

He had earned this.

No shortcuts. No handouts.

Just effort.

And that was something no one could take away from him.

—-

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