A boy with crooked glasses pulled his cart through Sector Seven’s mud. The metal wheels squeaked like trapped rats. Rain slicked his patched coat. He didn’t look up from the damp ground, even when a small hand darted through the cart’s torn canvas covering. 

It snatched half a loaf of grey nutrient bread. Quick. Silent. The girl melted back into the alleys gloom, her worn boots splashing through oily puddles. She didn’t run. Running drew eyes. Eyes meant trouble. She pressed herself against the damp brickwork, the stolen loaf already tucked under her oversized tunic. She scanned the street corner where the boy had been, confirming he hadn’t noticed. The rhythmic squeak of his cart fading into the distance told her she was in the clear. 

Her stomach clenched, a sharp reminder of why she risked it. Hunger was a constant companion here, sharper than the rusted pipes that dripped condensation on to her hijab. She adjusted the faded black leather instinctively. It was her most prized possession and she was never without it. She gripped it tightly as she navigated through the winding roads of Sector Seven.

Sector Seven wasn’t a city, not anymore. It was the ruins of something either terrible or grand, though time had made it hard to tell which. Crumbling brick tenements leaned precariously over narrow, wet streets choked with refuse and makeshift shelters cobbled from scrap metal and plastic sheets. The air hung thick with the reek of damp rot, unwashed bodies, and the acrid tang of whatever chemical sludge flowed through the open gutters. Light was scarce, dulled by the perpetual grey haze that clinged to the sector. What illumination existed came from flickering bioluminescent strips grafted onto the walls, a sickly green glow, or from the rare, grimy window where someone dared light precious fuel. Posters plastered over every available surface were less of an announcement than scars: peeling ration schedules, faded warnings about curfews, and the stern, seemingly unblinking eyes of the Overseers. The faces were always the same; stern, uniform, cruel. Their gaze seemed to follow you everywhere, and in a way it did. Patrol drones were everywhere, their cameras looking for anyone who steps out of line. 

A low whistle echoed from deeper in the alley. Two quick bursts. A signal. The girl pushed off the wall, slipping silently towards the sound. Her prize felt heavy against her ribs. Depending on what lay around the corner, today her stomach would find sustenance. Just a little. She continued down the maze of grime and shadow, past a pile of discarded foldouts - diagrams for machines long obsolete - towards the promise of shared warmth. The sector breathed around her, a low, long sigh, full of struggles.