The body on the gurney still twitches.
I wait for the last spasm to finish—one, two, three—then hook two fingers under the cold ankle. The plastic tag reads: SUBJECT 147. MALE. 29. Above the corpse's forehead, red holographic text flickers like a broken billboard:
MATE VALUE: $0 RELOADS REMAINING: 0 PERMANENT DELETION IN 3… 2… 1…
Gone. Just meat now.
I've wheeled one hundred and forty-six just like him into the furnace. Tonight makes one forty-seven.
Most janitors gag at the smell (burnt hair, cheap antiseptic, ozone). I don't. Smells like Tuesday.
The wheels squeal over cracked tile. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, half of them dying the way everything does down here. Sub-Level 13. The level they don't put on any map.
I kick the incinerator door. It yawns open, hungry.
Heat rolls out, licking my face with furnace breath. Then the flames turn blue.
Not natural gas blue. Code blue.
White script crawls across the fire like frost on glass.
[WARNING: Mirror Shard #019 energy < 6.8%] [Root privileges detected in proximity…] [User: ********] [Accept administrative access? Y/N]
The voice is mine. Older. Calmer. The voice I'll have if I ever make it out of here alive.
I laugh. It scrapes my throat raw, bounces off steel walls.
They shocked me for three months straight the first time I said the moon talked back. Guess the shrinks were half right.
My finger moves before my brain signs the permission slip. I press Y into empty air.
The world hiccups.
Every light in the morgue stutters (black, white, black). Then the secrets come flooding in.
Above 147's dead eyes, new text blooms like blood under skin:
Former Alpha – Ironfang Pack Cause of death: Purchased mate bond severed remotely Purchaser ID: Viewer_666_KingSlayer Price paid: $47,000,000 Peak livestream views: 9.8 million Tip jar total: $2.3 million for the scream at 03:14
My knees buckle.
The gurney slams into my hip. I don't feel it.
Because now I see everything.
Over the guard snoring outside the door: MATE VALUE $400k | Corruption Index 78%
Over the security camera bolted to the ceiling: LIVE FEED ACTIVE → 2,147,832 CURRENT VIEWERS
Over my own forehead, poison-green:
Raven Voss Designation: Human (Defective) Mate Slot Status: Virgin Auction – Lot 282 Starting Bid Tomorrow 22:00 GMT: $10,000,000 Hidden Flag: [SOLE ROOT USER]
The furnace snaps back to ordinary orange, like it never spoke at all.
But my left eye is burning.
I catch my reflection in the polished steel table. Where my iris should be, a tiny cracked moon spins slowly, silver shards orbiting like hungry teeth.
I grin so wide the collar burns a fresh ring into my skin.
"Hey, 147," I whisper to the corpse. "Guess what?"
I lean in until my lips almost touch his ear.
"Death just filed for bankruptcy."
Footsteps echo down the corridor (two sets, heavy boots). Shift change. They'll expect the furnace full and me invisible.
I shove the gurney forward. The body slides into the fire like it's coming home.
Blue sparks dance across my knuckles as I close the door.
One thought loops, bright and vicious:
Tomorrow they're selling my future to the highest bidder.
Tonight I just got handed the keyboard.
The collar hisses against my throat, reminding me it's still welded on. I touch the scar it left (raised, shining, permanent).
Tomorrow, I decide who burns first.
Somewhere far above, the moon (broken, bleeding, and suddenly very, very afraid) cracks a little wider.