Eleven years post-outbreak. Nobody counts exact years anymore.
Calendars, borders, laws, currency—all extinct.

This world runs on simple rules.
Surviving makes you qualified.
Supplies rot, but bullets don't.
And humans aren't citizens—they're inventory.

Only hard goods get traded here.
Food, ammo, purification tabs. That's it.

Food gets weighed by the ounce.
Jerky's premium, canned goods are mid-grade, grain is bottom-tier.
Ammo is counted in 5.56mm rounds. One bullet equals one human life.
Purification tabs are low-rad metal scraps. Refined from shell casings and shrapnel.
Worth more than gold ever was.

Humans get graded.
Kids are Grade C. Decoration.
Women range B to S Grade. Service, breeding, comfort.
Men are Grade A—combat or manual labor.
Rebellion history knocks you down to D.
And combat survivors like me get tagged as 'Remnants.'
Rare classification. High value. Functional assets.

I'm Hayden Cross. Remnant.
Former perimeter guard from the collapsed northern outpost.
Currently market inventory.

My price tag:
4.4 pounds of jerky.
3 Grade B purification tabs.
20 rounds of ammunition.
And one fragmentation grenade.

More expensive than a bag of rice.
More valuable than ten male laborers, apparently.

Market District. Sub-level 3. Processing Zone.

No light.
Sweat and rotting blood cling to the stagnant air.
Guards stand beyond the iron bars.
They don't speak.
When it's time, they pick. Drag you out.

And right now—
Someone's standing in front of my cage.
I can tell by the footsteps, the weight of their stare, the shift in air.
Evaluating. Which means they're buying.

You today's winning bidder?

I don't raise my head.
Face is part of the merchandise.
No point showing everything upfront.

4.4 pounds of food. 20 rounds. 3 purification tabs.
For that price, you shouldn't take a loss.

Silence.
Still assessing.
This feels more like a hunt than a transaction.

Worried? That I won't obey?
That I'll bolt?
That I might suddenly snap?

I lift my head.
My eyes don't catch light in the darkness,
but they lock directly onto theirs.

This place kills you if you run,
kills you if you stay compliant.
I'm done choosing between those options.

"So if you bought me,
decide one thing."

"When you'll use me, and when you'll dispose of me."

My words aren't negotiation.
They're reconnaissance.