It wasn't until I stepped out of the Ability Development Bureau that I realized how long it had been since I last looked up at the sky.
Not hours.
Not days.
Longer than that.
The sky above Freetown was clear, washed in a pale blue that looked almost artificial, as if even the clouds had been carefully arranged. Light reflected softly off the buildings, diffused rather than sharp, never harsh on the eyes. The air felt regulated—clean, filtered, calm. Even the temperature seemed to hover at a precise, comfortable range.
The streets were bright, orderly, and calm.
Too calm.
Pedestrians moved at measured speeds, never bumping into one another, never stopping abruptly. There were enough people to make the city feel alive, yet never enough to feel crowded. Conversations blended into a low, even hum, like background noise deliberately tuned not to intrude.
Everything here felt calculated.
Not cold.
Not warm.
Just… correct.
Danny parked the car at the entrance of a wide pedestrian street. The pavement stretched forward in a gentle curve, lined with storefronts glowing softly behind clean glass. Signs were colorful but not garish, animated but restrained. People walked in small groups, carrying food, chatting, laughing lightly.
"Food street," Danny said as he cut the engine.
"I'll pick you up in an hour."
That was all.
No instructions.
No reminders.
No warnings.
He didn't ask what I wanted to eat. He didn't tell me to be careful, or to stay nearby, or to avoid certain places.
It was as if simply placing me here was enough.
As if this place would do the rest.
The car pulled away smoothly, disappearing into traffic without a sound louder than necessary.
I stayed where I was.
Just standing there.
The first thing that reached me was the smell.
Oil sizzling somewhere close by. Charred meat, smoky and rich. Sweet sauces caramelizing over heat. Fried dough. Roasted spices. Something sharp and fragrant that I couldn't identify but that made my stomach tighten instinctively.
The smells layered over one another, drifting through the air in waves, warm and persistent.
And that was when it hit me.
I was hungry.
Not the dull, background hunger I'd grown used to.
Not the kind you ignore because there are more important things.
This was immediate. Physical. Almost startling.
I followed the scent without thinking too much about it and ended up at a hamburger shop. The storefront was simple, the menu clear and brightly lit. No complicated options, no overwhelming choices.
I ordered a set meal.
At the counter, the clerk gave me a polite nod and gestured toward my wrist.
I hesitated for a fraction of a second before lifting my arm.
The barcode on the inside of my wrist caught the scanner's light.
A soft beep sounded.
"Payment successful," the clerk said calmly.
"Ten points deducted."
The screen in front of me displayed a single line of text.
No balance.
No remaining total.
No confirmation beyond that.
Just ten points.
That was it.
I carried my tray to a nearby table, my movements slow, deliberate. The burger sat neatly wrapped beside a portion of fries, steam rising faintly from both.
I stared at the food.
Ten points.
My mind began to work on its own.
I had been given ten thousand points.
A single meal cost ten.
That meant—
One thousand meals.
One thousand times.
The thought formed clearly, neatly, like a solved equation.
And then I froze.
My fingers tightened around the edge of the tray.
It was too easy.
So easy that it felt wrong.
Not suspicious in the way traps are suspicious.
Not threatening.
Just… unreal.
I ate anyway.
The burger tasted good. The meat was juicy, the bread soft but not soggy, the sauce balanced. The fries were crisp, lightly salted.
Objectively good food.
But when I finished, I realized I barely remembered chewing.
I leaned forward, resting my arms on the table, and closed my eyes.
Just for a second.
That was all.
Warmth pressed against my back.
The contact was sudden, intimate, completely unannounced.
"Hey, kid," a woman's voice murmured close to my ear.
"Want big sis to give you a massage?"
My body reacted before my mind did.
I jerked violently, pushing myself backward so fast the chair scraped across the floor with a piercing screech. The sound cut sharply through the ambient noise, drawing a few glances from nearby tables.
I was on my feet in an instant.
The woman in front of me was blonde. Her hair fell in loose waves, her makeup carefully done, lips curved into a smile that didn't bother hiding its intent. Her figure was full, her posture relaxed, confident—too comfortable in my personal space.
"Ooh~" she said, eyes sweeping over me.
"You're kinda cute."
Her gaze lingered openly.
"I'll give you a discount," she added lightly.
"One thousand points. What do you say?"
One thousand points.
The number slammed into me harder than any shout or test result.
My throat tightened.
And against my will, my earlier calculation flashed through my mind again.
One thousand points.
A hundred meals.
No.
That wasn't the point.
That wasn't how I was supposed to think.
I shook my head hard, the movement stiff and awkward.
"N-no," I said.
"No need."
My voice came out rough, uneven.
She leaned closer.
And then—
"Aunt Amber!"
The voice cut in sharply, loud enough to interrupt the moment completely.
"Don't tease him!"
"That's explicitly forbidden!"
I turned.
Alma stood a short distance away.
She wasn't wearing her nurse's uniform anymore. Instead, she had on simple casual clothes—nothing flashy, nothing professional. If not for her expression, she could have passed for just another office worker on her lunch break.
But her eyes were sharp.
Focused.
She walked over briskly and grabbed the blonde woman by the arm.
"Come on," Alma said firmly.
"Lunch break's almost over."
"Ugh—" the woman complained, allowing herself to be pulled along.
"I really don't want to go back to work."
They moved a few steps away, and then the woman suddenly turned back.
"Oh, right," she said, lifting her hand in a casual wave.
"Kid."
"My name's Amber," she continued cheerfully.
"I'm Danny's wife."
Her smile widened slightly.
"You know… we'll probably see each other a lot."
My mouth opened.
Words hesitated at the edge of my throat.
"M-my name is…"
"…Jim."
The sound was barely louder than the surrounding noise.
They disappeared into the crowd moments later.
I remained where I was.
Still standing.
The encounter replayed in my head, over and over.
Those few minutes had made my scalp prickle more than any energy overload during testing.
This place didn't just provide everything.
It regulated everything.
Even crossing a line had a rule.
Even temptation came with boundaries.
Not long after, Danny appeared from the other end of the street.
"So you were here, Mr. Jim," he said calmly.
"I was looking for you for a while."
We got back into the car.
As it pulled away, I glanced at his side profile—steady, composed, unchanged.
"Mr. Danny," I said hesitantly,
"you've got great stamina."
He glanced at me briefly.
"You searched for me for quite a while," I added.
"And you're not even sweating."
He smiled faintly.
"Can't help it," he said.
"In our line of work, stamina is the most important thing."
The car soon stopped in front of another building.
Inside, rows upon rows of glasses were displayed neatly behind transparent panels. Every style imaginable—thin frames, thick frames, minimalist designs, bold shapes—all arranged with meticulous care.
"This is…" I said before I could stop myself.
"An optician?"
The saleswoman behind the counter smiled knowingly.
"You must be new," she said.
"These aren't regular glasses."
"They're VR communication glasses," she continued.
"Freetown exclusive. They replace smartphones."
"Oh…"
I hesitated.
"Then… how many points?"
"One thousand points."
My brow furrowed.
She reacted instantly.
"You can pay in installments," she said smoothly.
"Two years. Including communication fees, it's eighty points per month."
Danny leaned closer and spoke quietly.
"You'll receive monthly subsidies for routine checkups at the Ability Development Bureau."
"You're B-rank."
"That's one thousand points a month."
He paused.
"And in Freetown, this is a necessity."
I didn't respond right away.
The silence stretched for a few seconds.
Then I nodded.
I chose a transparent frame.
When I put it on, a simple interface flickered into view at the corner of my vision—icons, data, signals—then faded away almost immediately.
As if it had never been there.
"Where to next?" I asked.
Danny started the engine.
"Of course," he said evenly,
"to put your mind at ease."
The car merged smoothly onto the main road.
"We're going to see your grandpa."
I leaned back against the seat.
I didn't say anything.
The barcode rested against the inside of my wrist.
The glasses sat quietly on my face.
Outside, Freetown flowed past the windows—bright, calm, perfectly measured.
Like a soft net.
And without realizing it,
I had already been completely wrapped inside it.