9. One Who Is Not Alive

Strausga, where he lived, was part of the Restricted Area under the broader Kast branch—a place where young people struggled with unemployment. In the Core, the central hub, humanity had already completed the "Permanent Cycle," a material circulation system, twenty years ago, liberating people from labor.

However, the Permanent Cycle required certain constraints to function, one of which was strict population control. The system could not be extended to the "Normal Person" group, whose reproductive functions were difficult to regulate. Most jobs had been replaced by robots, leaving extremely limited work available for humans. Occupations that could stimulate human emotion—such as musicians or directors—were beloved by the people of the Core. Beyond that, there were only part-time jobs necessary for local self-sufficiency: non-permanent work without legal protection and no visible future.

He started working at sixteen. His family was poor, and his mother, who had been the breadwinner, stopped working after losing her fingers in a factory accident and had been bedridden at home ever since. Although minimum living expenses should have been provided for him as a minor, he was not the head of household, and their family existed in a legal blind spot. That was why he had to turn his back on his peers and face society alone.

He had no plans or future. To him, each day came crashing down like endless waves, suffocating him. Whenever the media published those absurd success stories claiming that people could succeed if they diligently planned their future despite difficult circumstances, he blamed himself for being weak and lazy. Compared to successful people, he lacked passion, confidence, and physical stamina. Building relationships with others was extremely difficult for him, and even speaking exhausted him. He found no joy in daily life and simply drifted here and there like a sailboat without oars, carried by the current.

When he turned nineteen, his mother passed away, unable to overcome the aftereffects of her industrial accident. Contrary to thinking he would be terribly sad when his mother died, he was glad to finally get a long sleep during his bereavement leave. And when he no longer needed as much living expenses (most of which had gone to his mother's medical costs), he quit his night job. After his mother's death, all his living conditions improved, and he let out a hollow laugh at such an ironic situation.

At some point, he began to feel suffocated. He didn't know where this suffocation originated, but no matter how deeply he breathed or how loudly he shouted, it wouldn't easily dissipate. The suffocation interfered with his breathing and prolonged speaking. During sustained conversations, appropriate words wouldn't come to mind—or no words at all—and only after agonizing as if wringing out his brain could he force out a single sentence that allowed him to briefly exhale the blocked breath. Days with many conversations left him more exhausted than usual. And the words from those days that had upset or startled him kept circling in his head, making his heart flutter again and heating the back of his neck. So even when he went to bed early, he couldn't fall asleep easily—some nights he stayed up all night with his eyes wide open. The next day invariably brought fatigue and regret.

He didn't feel alive. To be precise, he felt no satisfaction or happiness that comes from being alive. He had no goals and simply wished for each day to pass in an uneventful, peaceful state. Moreover, he felt no pleasure when freed from things that normally troubled him—such as work not going well or being constantly entangled with disagreeable people.

In other words, he had become numb to joy. When people finally get their turn after a long wait and drink the coffee they ordered, they typically feel a sense of reward and pleasure for their patience and effort—but for him, it was merely another difficult task that had passed. Days continuing without joy meant that emotions like sadness, fear, and anxiety continuously accumulated, piling up in his heart like grime. His heart no longer raced at someone's praise, nor did he feel excitement at a woman's kindness. He even doubted whether he was alive.

Perhaps he was willingly waiting for that unwelcome yet inevitable visitor called death.