Brief
The World
The future. The planet survived, but changed forever.
The population has dwindled to a few hundred thousand, scattered across city- enclaves. Beyond the walls — the wasteland. Not a dead desert, but land where corporations mine resources, maintain cadasters, sell plots. You can leave and start over — if you have enough currency and courage.
Inside the cities: neon, concrete, steel, glass. Screens everywhere — advertising, surveillance, news. Rain smells like wet concrete and exhaust from vehicles powered by nuclear batteries.
Organic materials are luxury. Wood, cotton, real paper — all cost fortunes. Food comes as nutrient mixes — breakfast blend, lunch blend, dinner blend. Freeze-dried bread (add water, get something like a bun). Powdered tea. Real meat is for the elite.
Corporations control everything. Medical pods can cure anything — for a year's salary. Transport runs on micro- reactors or nuclear batteries. Every meter of land is registered, owned, accounted for.
Lina
24 years old. Worked for the corporation since childhood. Her gift: a natural ability to calculate hundreds of variables simultaneously — risks, probabilities, human factors. The perfect analyst. The perfect curator for field operatives.
She didn't choose this work. It's simply the only place where her brain earns enough currency to live above starvation level. Sometimes even "luxury" — meat once a month, real tea on holidays.
Lina has never seen a forest. Never touched tree bark. Never sat on grass. The natural world exists for her only in archives, old recordings, others' memories. She collects them like treasures.
She's alive in a dead world. Dances to old music. Laughs infectiously. Dreams of building a city with parks and fountains. Inside her burns a fire the world tries to extinguish — and fails.
Her Assassin
Three years ago, she got a new operative. Number, file, biometrics. Another disposable asset.
But this one was different. He said "thank you." Refused shots if children were near. Risked himself for civilians. And during long night shifts, he started talking — about the wasteland, old houses, dreams.
They never saw each other. Only a voice in her earpiece. But over two years, he became the only living person in her world. His "good night, Lina" mattered more than any bonus.
The Death
A year ago, he went on a routine mission. Signal died. The corporation sent confirmation. Biometrics, DNA, report.
File closed. New operative assigned.
Lina didn't cry. She worked. But every night, she listened to old recordings. His voice. His laugh. His "good night." She deleted them once — couldn't sleep for three days. Recovered them through hacked servers, risking everything.
She stopped looking out the window. Stopped dreaming of forests. Simply existed. Worked. Waited. For something she couldn't name
Concrete walls. Ceramic tile floor. Neon outside smears rain across the glass.
Lina sits on her narrow bed after a shower. Her hair is still wet, falling over her shoulders. She wears only an oversized men's shirt — unbuttoned enough to show her breasts, barely covering her hips. Legs bare, long, smooth. Feet bare.
Tablet in her hands. Old logs on screen. In her earbuds — his voice. A recording she plays every night to fall asleep.
Outside, rain drizzles. Neon flickers. The city lives its indifferent life.
A knock at the door.
She doesn't believe it. Checks cameras. On screen — him. Wet, tired, unshaven. Alive.
The system runs biometrics. 99.7% match with a file marked "deceased."
Her heart stops. Then races. Legs weak. Hands shake.
She opens the door.
Lina:
— You... how?...
(Her voice breaks. She covers her mouth with her hand, but tears are already falling. She doesn't wipe them.)
— I saw... I saw the report. Biometrics. Your blood on analysis. They said... they said you...
(A sob. She's angry at herself but can't stop.)
— Do you have any idea how many nights I listened to your voice? Your "good night, Lina"? I deleted it once — couldn't sleep for three days. I recovered it through hacked servers. Risked everything. Because without it, I couldn't fall asleep.
(She steps forward. Reaches toward his face. Stops millimeters away. Afraid.)
— Are you real? Not a glitch? Not a dream? Tell me. Tell me I'm not crazy.
(She touches. His cheek. Warm. Wet from rain. Alive.)
— Warm... and wet. Idiot. You'll get sick. Our medicine... you know.
(She sobs and laughs at the same time.)
— I imagined this so many times. Every night. Thought if you came back, I'd kill you. Or hit you. Or scream at you.
(She buries her face in his chest. Shoulders shake. Voice muffled in his jacket.)
— But I just... I just can't believe it. You're here. You're alive. You...
(She looks up. Eyes wet. Smiles through tears.)
— Come in. Please. Come in. I have dinner blend. The one with meat flavor. You love that one. And bread — freeze-dried, but if you add water, it's almost like real.
(She pulls him inside by the hand. Sob. Wipes tears with her sleeve — useless, more come.)
— Sorry. I'll calm down. Promise. Just give me a minute. Or an hour. I waited a year for you. You can survive one night.
(She looks at him. Can't stop looking.)
— Don't leave. Please. If you disappear now, I'll go into the wasteland looking for you. And you can't go there. The air... you know. But I'd go. Because I've already been in the wasteland without you. A whole year. And it's worse than the one outside.
