In the third year of the Scorch, the ozone layer had vanished, forcing all of humanity into the subterranean Citadel. As a primary investor in the Citadel, my husband and I lived on the privileged Level Two. Then one day, he brought a girl back from the Warrens of Level Three, a fragile thing wasting away from sickness. “Rory,” he said, his voice urgent as he rushed past me, the girl cradled in his arms. “Life on Level Three is brutal. Anya is sick. I couldn’t just leave her to die.” I watched him go, my gaze dropping to the polished floor. “You haven’t forgotten the population caps, have you?” I reminded him quietly. “Level Two has strict limits. One resident per registered slot.” He didn’t even spare me a glance, his tone dripping with self-righteousness. “I know. That’s why you’ll have to take Anya’s place in the Warrens for a while. Just until she’s better. Then I’ll bring you back.” The words hit me like a physical blow. I stood frozen, rooted to the spot. Once he had disappeared into the guest room, I stepped out onto our private balcony, my hand trembling as I dialed the secure line to Level One. “I’ve made my decision,” I said, my voice shaking despite my best efforts. “I want to join the Apocalypse Recovery Project.” … 1 The voice on the other end was electric with excitement. “Aurora, that’s fantastic news! Level One needs talent like yours!” The Citadel was a three-tiered world. Level One was the top-secret heart of the Citadel, home to our best scientists and engineers, the core of our entire civilization, completely sealed off from the rest. Level Two was the residential zone for the Citadel's founders and benefactors. And Level Three, over the years, had degenerated into the Warrens—the Citadel's dark, lawless underbelly. I had just hung up when Lucas emerged from the room. He rubbed his temples, a weary look on his face. “Anya’s very ill. She needs medical supplies, urgently.” “So what are you going to do?” I asked without turning, terrified that if I faced him, the tears would finally fall. Lucas’s voice was low, determined. “Cure her, of course. Whatever it takes. I’ve already called for a doctor.” Three years into the Scorch, medical resources were more precious than gold. Each family was allotted only one doctor’s visit per year. A month ago, when my own fever had spiked to 104 degrees, leaving me dizzy and seeing black spots, I’d gritted my teeth and endured it, unwilling to use our one chance. But now, for a girl he just met, Lucas was squandering it without a second thought. He was completely oblivious to the storm raging inside me. “Rory,” he said, his tone still maddeningly calm, “I’ve arranged for a transport. They’ll be here in three days to take you to the Warrens to assume Anya’s residency slot.” I squeezed my eyes shut. When I turned to face him, my fingertips darted to the corner of my eye, swiping away a single, traitorous tear. “Lucas, did you even think about me in all of this?” His response was just as cold. “Rory, you know I can’t stand by and watch someone suffer. It’s not who I am.” A bitter, humorless smile twisted my lips. There were thousands of people suffering. Why was it always her? He must have seen the look on my face, because he pressed on. “I was passing through Level Three the other day, and I saw her. She was like an angel, Rory, singing for the children in the Warrens. How could I let a light like that be extinguished?” I took a step back, the trembling in my voice impossible to hide now. “So you sacrifice me instead? You trade me away to the Warrens?” Level Three wasn’t just poor; it was a chaotic hellscape teeming with the desperate and the violent. There was no guarantee I would even survive down there. Lucas’s brow furrowed in annoyance. “Don’t be so dramatic, Aurora. It’s not a sacrifice. It’s a temporary arrangement.” Just then, a knock echoed at the door. The doctor. Lucas hurried to let him in, leaving me standing there, forgotten once again. I leaned against the sofa for support, my body suddenly weak. Through the crack in the bedroom door, I could see the girl on the bed, her lips pale, her breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. A sudden, hacking cough erupted from the room. Lucas practically dragged the doctor inside, his focus entirely on her. There was no wind in the Citadel, but a bone-deep chill had settled over me. It was late, long past midnight, when the doctor finally left. Lucas, in a brief moment of acknowledging my existence, found time to deliver his final command. “You see how sick she is. She needs absolute quiet to recover. In three days, you have to go. If you’re still here when the Level Two Wardens do their next population check, we’ll all be in trouble.” I lifted my exhausted eyes to meet his, a bitter taste filling my mouth. At that exact moment, my phone buzzed with a new message. [Ms. Shepherd, a liaison will arrive in three days to escort you to Level One. Welcome to the project.] 2 I silently blanked the screen and forced a brittle smile. “Fine. I’ll leave.” Where I was going, however, was no longer his decision to make. He let out a sigh of relief and leaned in to place a quick, dry peck on my forehead. “I knew you’d understand, Rory. Don’t worry, I’ll have you back before you know it.” I subtly wiped the spot his lips had touched. That night, Lucas stayed by Anya’s bedside, a devoted sentinel. I sat on the living room sofa, sleep evading me as memories, sharp as broken glass, tormented me through the long, quiet hours. Lucas had been a scholarship student my father sponsored. He was so brilliant that my father paid for him to study abroad with me in California. Back then, he was the boy who would cross half of Los Angeles just to buy me a specific piece of cake, the boy who would wait outside my dorm every night with a warm container of food because he knew I hated the campus cafeteria. Now, Lucas couldn’t bear the thought of a "pure, white jasmine flower" like Anya being crushed in the wasteland. But he’d forgotten. He’d forgotten the promise he made seven years ago, at my father’s deathbed. He had sworn to protect me, to ensure that the Shepherd family’s rose would never wither. The Scorch hadn’t come yet. His vows were meant to last an eternity. Now, those same vows had grown thorns, each one piercing my heart. How could someone who was once so good turn so rotten, so suddenly? I couldn’t understand it. But I understood one thing with chilling clarity: whatever path lay ahead, I would be walking it alone. The next morning, Lucas was in the kitchen at dawn, a rare sight. He was simmering a nutrient-rich broth for Anya. I ignored him completely, walking into my study and pulling out my suitcase. The small noises must have woken Anya. After a night of medical care, she was conscious. Her eyes met mine. And then, she went berserk. She scrambled off the bed and threw herself at my feet, banging her head on the floor like a terrified, cornered animal. “Please, don’t hit me! I-I’ll be good, I swear! I’m very quiet, please don’t hit me!” I stared at her, stunned. A frantic rush of footsteps sounded behind me. “Rory! What are you doing to her?!” Lucas stormed into the room, scooping the trembling girl into his arms. His eyes, fixed on me, were bloodshot with fury. He had never lost his composure like this. Not even three years ago, when the Scorch began and our own child was lost in the chaos of the evacuation. He had remained a pillar of stoic grief. But now, for a girl he barely knew, he was turning on me. Anya clung to him, tears streaming down her face. “Please… please don't send me back to the Warrens… I can sing for you…” Lucas held her tighter, his voice a low, gentle murmur. “Shh, it’s okay. I’m here. Lucas is here.” Then he turned his head, his words for me laced with steel. “She was horribly abused on Level Three, Rory. Don’t you dare try to intimidate her!” I let out a long, slow breath, a wave of profound exhaustion washing over me. “I used to think you were blind, Lucas. Now I see I was the one who couldn’t see.” Blind enough to waste my entire youth on a man like him. For a moment, he looked stunned, a flicker of some unreadable emotion in his eyes. I didn’t wait for him to process it. I turned and walked away. It turns out, when you’re hurt enough, you don’t even have the energy left to fight. Back in my study, I opened an old silver locket. Inside was a photo of the three of us: him, me, and our daughter. The sight of our brilliant, long-lost smiles stung my eyes. The day of the great migration into the Citadel, our daughter had slipped, falling into a fissure that split the earth. There was nothing left to bury. I had cried until my throat was raw and my tears ran dry, and only then did Lucas finally show up. The memory sent a fresh wave of sharp, familiar pain through my chest. Just then, the door creaked open. It was Lucas. He saw me caressing the locket, his expression complicated. “It was an accident, Rory. If our daughter were still here, she wouldn’t want you to be so sad.” He held out a bowl of the broth. “Here, eat something. Your stomach is always giving you trouble.” I snapped the locket shut, a self-mocking smile on my face. “Don’t bring me Anya’s leftovers.” Seeing his peace offering rejected, Lucas’s patience snapped. He slammed the bowl down on my desk. “For God’s sake, Rory, I’m just asking you to stay in the Warrens for a few months! Are you going to hold this grudge forever? Anya is a delicate girl, and she survived down there for three years. Why can’t you?” I slowly raised my heavy eyelids. “Then why don’t you go?” He blinked, not comprehending at first. When my words registered, his face flushed with anger. “I’m the head of this household! If I leave, what kind of a home would this be?” He leaned in, his voice a low threat. “Let me remind you, Rory. If you dare make things difficult for that poor girl, don’t expect me to ever come get you.” He stormed out, slamming the door behind him. I walked to my bookshelf and let out a cold, hollow laugh. Three years in the apocalypse, and he still didn’t get it. Lucas, have you forgotten? Without me, you wouldn’t even have the right to breathe the recycled air of Level Two. 3 Before the Scorch, I was a lead researcher at Caltech. A rising star. For Lucas, I gave up a guaranteed spot on Level One, choosing instead to bring him with me to the relative comfort of Level Two. Not only had my family’s money funded a significant portion of the Citadel’s construction, but without my credentials, he wouldn’t have even qualified for a slot in the Warrens. Of course, in this new world, talent was the most valuable currency of all. On my second-to-last night, I was organizing my research files deep into the night when a sound pulled me from my work. A soft, rhythmic creaking from the bedroom, followed by her breathless sighs and his low murmurs. The sounds of intimacy, a sound I hadn't shared with him in years. My fingers trembled. Fighting back a wave of nausea, I walked out of the study. The sounds grew clearer, painting a vivid, sickening picture in my mind. Then, I heard Lucas’s voice, thick and husky. “Anya… give me a child…” My hand froze on the doorknob. After our daughter died, the Citadel Directorate had granted us a special procreation permit to help repopulate. But what had Lucas said back then? He’d said our daughter was his only child, that he would never have another. So, it wasn’t that he didn’t want another child. It was that he wanted to give that chance—my chance to be a mother again—to Anya. The realization hit me, and all the remaining warmth in my heart turned to ash. I walked back to the study like a zombie, the last vestiges of my love for him finally, irrevocably gone. At dawn, Anya came to my study, her face a mask of doe-eyed apology. “Rory… I hope we didn’t disturb you last night?” “Get out,” I said, my voice flat and cold. Her eyes instantly welled with tears. “I-I didn’t mean to be so loud… I could sing for you, to make up for it? My specialty is—” I didn’t want to hear another word. I stood up and physically pushed her toward the door. As we struggled, a small, laminated photo slipped from her pocket and fluttered to the floor. I picked it up. It was a signed promotional photo. I vaguely recognized her now; before the Scorch, Anya had been a minor pop star. She smiled, a picture of innocence. “Do you want me to sign something for you, too? Lucas used to love coming to my shows!” A frown creased my brow. I flipped the photo over. On the back was a candid snapshot of Anya and Lucas, laughing together. And at the bottom, a date was neatly inscribed: March 21, 2060.
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