The kitchen light flickered twice before staying on—a dying bulb they couldn't afford to replace yet. Jayson Rodriguez stood in his underwear and his father's old factory shirt, the linoleum cold against his bare feet. 3:17 AM. The apartment's thin walls carried Mrs. Chen's coughing from 4B, the baby crying in 4D, the endless hum of the city that never quite slept.
He'd come for water. Just water. But Maya's laptop sat open on the counter, its screen dark except for an email notification blinking in the corner. She must have forgotten to close it after her late shift fixing the neighbor's ancient cooling unit. Jayson reached to shut it, then stopped.
NeuroPrime Industries - Employment Offer - Response Required
His hand hovered over the keyboard. Maya was private about her work, careful about her contracts. But NeuroPrime—everyone knew NeuroPrime. They built the neural interfaces that powered half the enhanced athletes in the world. They didn't send emails to nobodies.
He touched the trackpad.
Dear Ms. Rodriguez,
Following your exceptional performance in the Singapore Security Challenge, NeuroPrime Industries is pleased to extend our third and final offer for the position of Senior Systems Architect. Annual compensation: $347,000 USD, plus full family medical coverage, enhancement allowance, and relocation assistance to our Boston campus.
We understand your previous concerns about family obligations. Please note this offer includes housing for up to four family members and specialized care provisions for disabled dependents. This opportunity expires in 48 hours.
We hope you'll reconsider. Talents like yours shouldn't be wasted.
Jayson's throat went dry. $347,000. More than their family had seen in... ever. He scrolled down and found Maya's drafted response, dated two weeks ago:
Thank you for your generous offer. Unfortunately, my circumstances haven't changed. I must respectfully decline.
Never sent.
Below it, another draft from three weeks before that. Another decline. Another fortune refused. His hands shook as he scrolled through her sent folder. Job offer after job offer—Atlas Bioworks, Sakura Synth, smaller companies he'd never heard of. All declined. All fortunes that could have lifted them out of this place where the walls grew black mold in summer and the heat shut off twice each winter.
"Shit," he whispered to the empty kitchen. Then louder, "Shit, Maya."
The refrigerator hummed its broken song—three beats, pause, three beats. Jayson had fixed it twice already this month. Everything in the apartment lived on borrowed time, held together by Maya's genius and duct tape. He closed the laptop and stood there, hands flat on the counter, trying to process what his sister had given up. For them. For him.
From down the hall came the sound that had woken him—his father's muffled groans. The pain always hit worst in the early morning hours, when the medication wore thin and the nerve damage remembered how to scream. Jayson moved quietly, years of practice guiding him past the squeaky floorboard near the bathroom.
Miguel Rodriguez sat on the edge of his bed, hands trembling as he tried to open the pill bottle. His fingers, once strong enough to grip factory steel for ten-hour shifts, now betrayed him in the simplest tasks.
"Here, Dad." Jayson took the bottle, twisted it open, shook out two pills. The label read Marcus Memorial Hospital - Charity Dispensary. Generic painkillers, barely enough to take the edge off.
"Couldn't sleep?" Miguel asked, his voice rough.
"Yeah. Just... thinking."
Miguel swallowed the pills dry, a habit from when they couldn't always afford water. In the dim light from the street, Jayson could see the scars along his father's arms, the way his right shoulder sat lower than the left. Twenty-three years of factory work, ended by one malfunctioning enhancement exoskeleton that threw him into a support beam. The company blamed "operator error." The enhanced supervisor testified that Miguel's "natural reflexes" were too slow.
"You look like you've seen a ghost, mijo."
Jayson almost told him about Maya's emails. Almost. Instead, he found himself asking, "Dad, do you ever regret not getting enhanced?"
Miguel's laugh was bitter coffee and old dreams. "Every day. And never." He flexed his damaged hands. "You know what these hands did before the factory?"
"Running," Jayson said. He'd heard pieces of the story, but Miguel rarely talked about his athletic days.
"2044 Olympics. Marathon. Came in fourth." Miguel's eyes went somewhere else, somewhere the pain couldn't follow. "Three seconds. Three seconds behind bronze, and the winner—Chen Wei's father—he had first-gen leg enhancements. Just springs and basic motors, nothing like today. But it was enough."
"You almost medaled against an enhanced athlete?"
"Almost." The word hung between them like smoke. "Came home thinking I'd train harder, come back in '48. But your mother was pregnant with Maya, and the factory was hiring, and..." He gestured at the apartment, at their life, at all the almosts that added up to nothing. "I chose family. Never regretted that part."
Jayson sat beside his father. The mattress creaked, protesting even their combined weight. "Why didn't you enhance when they started offering payment plans?"
"Because I'm stubborn. Because I thought natural talent plus hard work still meant something. Because—" Miguel stopped, rubbed his face. "Because I wanted to win as myself. Stupid, probably. But when I ran, when I pushed my body past what it thought it could do... that was me. My lungs, my legs, my will. Not some corporation's technology."
He stood carefully, favoring his left side, and shuffled to the closet. From a box on the top shelf—one Jayson had never seen him touch—he pulled out a pair of running shoes. Black with gold trim, the logo so faded it was barely visible.
"2044 Olympic marathons. Ran 26.2 miles in these." He held them out to Jayson. "Been saving them for... I don't know what. Maybe for a son stupid enough to believe what I believed."
The shoes were lighter than Jayson expected. The soles worn smooth in places, the laces replaced at least twice. But they felt solid. Real. Like they remembered every step of that almost-medal race.
"Dad—"
"I see you running in the mornings. When you think everyone's asleep. 5Ks, 10Ks, getting faster each time." Miguel's eyes, usually clouded with pain, sharpened. "You've got it, Jayson. The thing coaches used to call the hunger. I see it in how you move, how you breathe through the pain. Natural talent in a world that doesn't believe in natural anything anymore."
Jayson held the shoes against his chest. Down the hall, he could hear his mother getting ready for her morning shift—shower running, radio playing softly. Elena Rodriguez, who'd been a teacher in El Salvador before they fled, now spent her nights cleaning hospital floors so enhanced doctors could save enhanced athletes when their systems crashed.
"The North American qualifiers are in two months," Jayson said quietly.
Miguel nodded. "I know."
"They still have one heritage spot. If someone can hit the base time."
"2:45 for 50K. I know that too."
"You think I could—"
"I think," Miguel said carefully, "that you're twenty-two years old with legs that don't owe payments to any corporation. I think you've been training in secret for two years. I think Maya turns down $300,000 jobs to stay here, and your mother works herself to death, and we all sacrifice for each other because that's what family does."
He sat back down, wincing. "But maybe it's time one of us sacrificed for something bigger. Maybe it's time the world remembered what we can do without their improvements."
Elena appeared in the doorway, still in her hospital custodian uniform, her hair pulled back in the same bun she'd worn for fifteen years. She looked between her husband and son—Miguel sitting heavily on the bed, Jayson holding the Olympic shoes—and understood immediately.
"No," she said softly. Then harder, "No, Miguel. Don't put this on him."
"Elena—"
"I know that look. Both of you with that same stubborn jaw, that same stupid hope." She entered the room, exhaustion written in every line of her face. "You think I don't see you, Jayson? Running before dawn? Timing yourself on that old watch?"
Jayson set the shoes carefully on the dresser. "Mom, I—"
"Your father almost died for those three seconds. Not in the race—after. When he couldn't be their champion anymore, when the factory was all that would take him, when—" Her voice cracked. "When they threw him away like broken equipment."
"It's different now," Jayson said. "There's a heritage spot. Official rules. If I can hit the qualifying time—"
"If!" Elena pulled off her work shoes, revealing feet swollen from ten hours of mopping. "If you qualify. If you don't get hurt. If the enhanced athletes don't literally run you into the ground. If, if, if. This family runs on ifs and almosts."
Maya appeared in the doorway, rubbing sleep from her eyes. She took in the scene—the shoes, the faces, the weight of unspoken decisions—and leaned against the doorframe. "Family meeting without me?"
"Go back to bed, mija," Elena said.
"Can't. Jayson was stomping around the kitchen like a elephant." Maya's eyes found his, and he saw she knew. About the emails. About everything. "What are we discussing at"—she checked her phone—"3:47 AM?"
"Your brother wants to throw away his life chasing your father's ghost," Elena said.
"I want to run," Jayson said simply. "The heritage qualifier is in eight weeks. If I can run 50K in under 2:45, I get a spot at continentals."
Maya studied him. "The heritage spot hasn't been claimed in eight years. The last person who tried DNF'd at 30K. Enhanced athletes run that distance in 2:15 now."
"I know."
"You'd be running alone. No pacers, no teammates, no one else even trying for natural times."
"I know."
"And if you make it to continentals? Top 40 out of 300, where 299 have mechanical advantages?"
"Then I run faster."
The apartment fell silent except for Mrs. Chen's coughing and the refrigerator's broken rhythm. Elena sank onto the bed beside Miguel, taking his trembling hands in hers. Twenty-five years of marriage had taught them to communicate without words. Jayson saw his father squeeze back—let him try.
Maya pulled up something on her phone. "Okay. Let's say you're serious. The qualifier is November 15th in Denver. Entry fee is..." She winced. "$500. Plus travel, lodging, food. Call it $1,200 minimum."
"We don't have $1,200," Elena said flatly.
"I'll work extra shifts," Jayson said.
"Where? The loading dock that replaced you with an exoskeleton? The delivery service that requires enhanced runners?" Maya's voice stayed gentle, but her words cut deep. "Nobody hires naturals for physical work anymore."
"Then I'll find something else. I'll figure it out."
"With what time? You need to be training 80 miles a week minimum to have a shot at 2:45." Maya pulled up more data. "Elite natural marathoners in the 2040s ran 100-mile weeks. And they were running 42K, not 50K."
Miguel spoke up. "Sarah Chen is still in the city."
Everyone turned to him.
"Marcus Chen's aunt. Coached the '44 team. If anyone knows how to prepare a natural athlete..." He trailed off, looking at Elena. "She'd remember me."
"The drunk?" Elena's voice could have frozen fire. "The woman who shows up to high school meets yelling about the old days?"
"She drinks because she lost everything. Her athletes, her purpose, her—"
"Her mind," Elena finished. "You want our son trained by someone who lives in the past?"
"I want him trained by someone who remembers when humans could win."
Jayson moved to the window, looking out at the pre-dawn city. Somewhere out there, enhanced athletes were sleeping in recovery pods, their systems optimizing muscle repair down to the cellular level. He'd be starting from nothing. Less than nothing—a joke entry in a sport that had evolved past him.
But he thought about Maya's emails. $347,000 refused. How many more would she turn down? How long before even her genius couldn't stretch their money? How long before his father's generic pills stopped working? How long before his mother's body gave out from double shifts?
"I'm doing this," he said to the window. "With or without help. With or without money. I'm going to run."
"Jayson—" Elena started.
"I've been training for two years. Every morning. 5K to 20K, building base. I ran a 50K test last month." He turned around. "2:52. Seven minutes off qualifying pace."
Even Maya looked surprised. "When?"
"You were at the Kim's fixing their neural interface. Mom was at work. Dad was sleeping off the pain meds." He met each of their eyes. "2:52. On the broken roads by the canal. In shoes held together with duct tape. Give me eight weeks with real training, with someone who knows what they're doing, and I'll find those seven minutes."
Elena stood, crossed to him, placed her hands on his face. He could smell the industrial disinfectant that never quite washed off, see the gray creeping into her hair, feel the calluses from a thousand nights of honest work.
"You're sure?"
"No," he admitted. "But I'm tired of watching us sacrifice for nothing. Maybe it's time we sacrificed for something impossible."
She kissed his forehead, then turned to Maya. "How much do we have in savings?"
"Mom, no—"
"How much?"
Maya closed her eyes. "$732. Rent's due in five days."
"Then we have five days to find $468 for rent and $1,200 for dreams." Elena straightened her shoulders. "Miguel, you'll call Sarah Chen today. Sober her up if you have to. Maya, start looking for extra repair jobs. Cash only."
"What about you?" Jayson asked.
His mother smiled—the first real smile he'd seen from her in months. "I'm going to ask for double shifts. Tell them my son needs to run."
She left for her room, dignity intact despite exhaustion. Miguel struggled to his feet, pressed the Olympic shoes into Jayson's hands one more time.
"Don't let them sit in a closet for twenty years," he said. "Whatever happens—fourth place or dead last—run them until they fall apart."
He shuffled back to bed, leaving the siblings alone. Maya slumped against the wall, and Jayson saw how tired she looked. How the weight of keeping them afloat had carved lines around her eyes that shouldn't exist at nineteen.
"Those emails," he said quietly. "NeuroPrime. Atlas. All of them."
"You weren't supposed to see those."
"$347,000, Maya. Medical coverage. Housing."
"In Boston. Or Singapore. Or Tokyo." She met his eyes. "What happens to Mom when Dad needs help and we're both gone? What happens when the pain gets worse and she's alone with him? What happens to this family if I take the money and run?"
"What happens if you don't? If you waste your gift holding us together?"
"Same thing that happens if you waste yours running against machines." She pushed off the wall, headed for her room. "Guess we're both idiots."
"Maya—"
She stopped at her door.
"For what it's worth? 2:52 is incredible for someone training on canal roads." She pulled up her phone again, fingers flying across the screen. "Give me ten minutes. I'm writing you a training app. Nothing fancy—just something to track your splits, elevation, heart rate if we can get you a monitor."
"Maya, you don't have to—"
"Yes, I do." Her voice carried that tone he recognized from when she was deep in code. "If my brother's going to race machines, he needs every advantage we can steal. Ten minutes."
Her door closed. Jayson stood alone in the hallway, his father's shoes pressed against his chest, feeling the weight of what had just happened. Four people who could barely afford groceries had just decided to take on the world.
He went back to the kitchen, filled a glass with water, and sat at the table where they'd shared ten thousand meals. The laptop still glowed with Maya's unsent rejection. $347,000. He closed it gently, pushing away dreams of what that money could have bought. Those were enhanced dreams. Corporate dreams. Not theirs.
By the time Maya emerged, the first gray light was creeping through the windows. She handed him her ancient phone—the screen cracked but functional.
"JayRun 1.0," she announced. "GPS tracking accurate to three meters, splits every K, elevation mapping pulled from city data. Battery should last about four hours if you turn off everything else."
"Maya—"
"Also." She pulled a sensor from her pocket, one of her salvaged projects. "Heart rate monitor. Duct tapes to your chest, syncs via Bluetooth. It's from a 2062 model, but I've updated the firmware."
"Where did you—"
"And this." A notebook, pages already filled with her neat handwriting. "Everything I could find on natural marathon training from the last decent era. Schedules, nutrition, recovery patterns. Had to dig through archives from before the enhancement revolution, but it's solid data."
Jayson flipped through pages of pace charts, interval recommendations, dietary plans adjusted for their budget. She'd done this in ten minutes. His throat tightened.
"You've been planning this."
"For six months," she admitted. "Since you started sneaking out for long runs. Figured eventually you'd be stupid enough to try."
"And you support this insanity?"
"I support you." She collapsed into the chair across from him. "Look, the odds are shit. The heritage spot exists to make people feel like the sport still honors its past, not because anyone expects it to be claimed. You'll be running against people with metabolisms that process lactate 300% more efficiently. Their muscles literally don't know how to cramp."
"I know."
"But." She leaned forward. "Every enhancement has a weakness. Neural interfaces can overheat. Synthetic muscles require precise pH balance. Mechanical joints have stress tolerances. And all of them—every single one—depends on technology working perfectly for hours straight."
"You've been researching."
"I've been preparing. If you're doing this, you're doing it smart." She pulled up another file. "Sarah Chen. Dad was right—she coached naturals to twelve medals between 2036 and 2044. Lives in Sector 7 now, in the old athletic district. And yes, she drinks. Lost her career, her athletes, everything when enhancement took over. But look at this."
A video played—grainy footage from a high school meet. An old woman, clearly drunk, being escorted out by security. But in the background, barely visible, she was correcting a young runner's form with perfect precision.
"She still knows," Maya said. "Her body remembers even when her mind's floating in bourbon. We get her sober for eight weeks..."
"Think she'd even talk to us?"
"Dad's Miguel Rodriguez. Fourth place, 2044, last natural to almost medal." Maya smiled grimly. "She'll talk. She'll probably cry. Then hopefully she'll teach you how to find seven minutes."
Jayson stood, tested the weight of the shoes again. Outside, the city was waking—delivery drones buzzing past, enhanced couriers already on their morning routes at speeds he'd never match. But somewhere out there, a road waited. A qualifying mark that seemed impossible. A chance to prove that the enhancement companies hadn't won everything yet.
"I should run," he said. "Get used to the shoes before—"
"Jayson." Maya's voice stopped him. "When you line up in Denver—if you make it to Denver—you'll be alone. No team, no sponsors, no augmented reality coaching. Just you and whatever's in here." She tapped his chest. "Make sure it's enough."
He thought about their mother, already planning double shifts she couldn't afford to work. His father, offering connections to a past that hurt to remember. Maya, turning down fortunes to hold their family together with code and cleverness.
"It's not just me," he said. "Never was."
"No," Maya agreed. "But you're the one who has to run."
The morning called. Jayson laced up his father's Olympic shoes—the fit surprisingly perfect, as if they'd been waiting. He clipped Maya's jerry-rigged heart monitor to his chest, opened her app, and headed for the door.
"Hey," Maya called. "The 2:52 last month. What was your split pattern?"
"Negative splits. 1:28 first half, 1:24 second."
Her eyes widened slightly. "You held back in the first half and dropped four minutes? On those roads?"
"Felt like I had more in the tank."
"Jesus." She shook her head. "Maybe you are Dad's son after all. Go run, idiot. I'll start hunting for $1,668 we don't have."
Jayson stepped into the hallway, then the stairwell, then the street. 4:31 AM in Sector 12, where dreams went to work factory shifts and die slowly. But not today. Today, his father's shoes hit pavement that remembered when humans could fly on their own power. Today, his mother would tell her supervisor about a son who needed to run. Today, Maya would build miracles from scrap code and stubbornness.
Today, inheritance meant more than DNA or money or enhanced advantages. It meant carrying forward something worth saving.
The shoes felt strange at first—relics from an era when cushioning meant foam, not responsive gel. But as Jayson found his rhythm, as the morning air filled his unaugmented lungs, as his purely human heart found its beat, they started to feel like possibility.
Seven minutes to find. Eight weeks to find them.
He ran toward the canal, where the broken roads would test every step, where enhanced athletes never trained because there was nothing there but raw distance and pain. Perfect conditions for remembering what bodies could do when they had no choice but to endure.
The city lights faded behind him. Ahead, the sun was trying to break through the smog, painting the sky the color of old gold. Like medals that almost were. Like dreams that refused to die.
Like a heritage worth claiming.
Jayson Rodriguez ran into the dawn, carrying his family's hopes on feet that owed nothing to anyone but themselves. And for the first time in two years of secret training, he let himself believe it might be enough.