Nico had never been to Level 6 Housing Administration before. He'd never had a reason to. You didn't apply for places you couldn't afford, couldn't qualify for, couldn't even dream about without feeling like an idiot.
But he had fifty million credits now. That changed things, yeah?
The waiting room smelled clean. That was the first thing that hit him—not the recycled air stink of algae farms and industrial processes that permeated Level 8, not the sour sweat smell of too many people in too small spaces. Just... clean. Antiseptic, maybe. Like they pumped in something that ate all the other smells.
Nico sat in one of the chairs, trying not to fidget. The furniture was real plastic, not the recycled composite shit they had in Level 8. The walls were painted a pale blue that was probably supposed to be calming. Soft lighting, no flicker. A display screen on one wall showed apartment listings with holoprojections rotating slowly—spacious rooms, private kitchens, actual windows looking out at the inner hull gardens.
He was the only person waiting.
Two other people had come in after him, looked at him, and left. Like maybe they'd walked into the wrong place. Nico had seen one woman's eyes track from his face down to his worn jacket (not the pawned one, he'd bought a replacement but it was still clearly Level 8 quality), his scuffed boots, his nervous hands.
She'd walked out.
Yeah, okay. He got it. He looked like what he was—a Level 8 junkie dealer trying to play at being someone who belonged here. The money in his pocket didn't show on his face, didn't erase nine years of hard living and Veil damage.
He should have worn something nicer. Should have thought this through. Should have—
"Number forty-seven?"
Nico jerked his head up. A woman stood at a doorway, holding a tablet, looking bored. Her clothes were business professional—actual tailored synthetic fiber, not printed. Her hair was pulled back in a neat bun. She didn't smile.
He stood, realizing he was the only one there. "Uh. Yeah, that's me."
She glanced at her tablet, then at him. Something flickered in her expression—not quite surprise, more like confirmation of something she'd already suspected. "This way, please."
The office was small but meticulously organized. Two chairs, a desk with a built-in terminal, more pale blue walls. Everything at right angles, nothing out of place. The woman sat behind the desk and gestured at the chair across from her.
"Mr. Chen, is it?"
"Nico. Just Nico."
"Mr. Chen," she repeated, firm. She tapped her tablet and a form materialized on the screen. "You're here to apply for Level 6 residential housing. Is that correct?"
"Yeah. Yes." He sat forward, trying to look... what? Responsible? Employable? Like someone who deserved to live somewhere with working plumbing and consistent gravity? "I, uh. I'm ready to move up. Got the means now, and I want to do this right. Apply proper, go through channels."
She nodded slowly, still typing. "And your current residence?"
"Level 8. District Four. The Archway Pods."
More typing. Her face gave away nothing, but Nico saw her shoulders tighten slightly. Level 8. Of course.
"Current employment?"
Fuck. Nico swallowed. "Freelance. Gig economy stuff. Whatever comes up, yeah?" Not technically a lie. Dealing was gig economy, in a sense. Very freelance. Extremely whatever-comes-up.
"So no formal employment contract?"
"Not currently. But I got funds. I can pay." He leaned forward. "Look, I know how this sounds, but I got an inheritance. Family money. Enough to cover first and last, security deposit, the whole thing."
That made her look up, eyebrows raised. "An inheritance."
"Yeah. Distant relative, didn't even know they existed until—well." He shrugged, going for casual. "Sometimes life surprises you, yeah?"
"Indeed." She made a note on her tablet. "I'll need documentation of those funds. Bank statements, proof of deposit, legal documentation of the inheritance transfer."
"Right. Yeah. I can get you... most of that."
"Most of it?"
"The money's good. It's legitimate. I just need to—it's in process, the transfer stuff. Probate or whatever." Nico was making it up as he went and he could tell she knew it. "But I got access now. I can show you the accounts."
She set down her tablet. Folded her hands on the desk. Looked at him with the tired patience of someone who'd had this exact conversation a hundred times before.
"Mr. Chen. Before we go further, I need to run a standard background check. It's required for all applicants. This will show employment history, residence history, criminal record, credit rating. Is there anything you'd like to disclose before I run this?"
His stomach dropped.
Criminal record. Of course. Of course there was a background check. How had he not thought about that? How had he been stupid enough to think he could just walk in here with money and that would be enough?
"I, uh." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Might be some... minor stuff. Nothing serious. Small charges, yeah? Just—Level 8, you know how it is."
"I'm afraid I'll need specifics, Mr. Chen."
"Possession charges. Two in the past year. But they were—look, it's just Veil, everyone uses, it's not like I was—"
"Drug possession is a class three offense." Her voice had gone flat, professional. "Two charges in one year indicates a pattern of illegal activity."
"It's minor shit!" Nico's frustration boiled over before he could stop it. "Everyone in Level 8 uses, the SSS just picks people at random to hassle. I wasn't hurting anyone, I was just—"
"Are you currently using controlled substances?"
Fuck. "That's not—I mean, I'm not—" He could lie. Should lie. But she'd probably test him, wouldn't she? Wasn't that how this worked? "I use Veil sometimes. Recreationally. Like everyone."
She was already shaking her head. "Mr. Chen, I appreciate you coming in, but I'm afraid you don't meet the eligibility requirements for Level 6 housing."
"Wait—"
"Active drug use and criminal charges for possession disqualify applicants under Section 47-B of the Station Housing Code. This is non-negotiable." She was already standing, already closing his file. "Additionally, lack of formal employment and inability to provide documentation of funds make you a high-risk tenant."
"I got fifty million fucking credits!" The words burst out before he could stop them.
She paused. Looked at him. Not shocked—more like she'd finally had the confirmation she'd been waiting for.
"Mr. Chen, if you actually had fifty million credits, you wouldn't be applying for Level 6 housing. You'd be applying for Level 3 or above." Her voice was gentler now, almost pitying. "I understand that Level 8 is... difficult. I understand wanting to escape. But lying about funds and presenting false inheritances isn't going to help you. It just wastes both our time."
"I'm not lying—"
"I'm going to ask you to leave now. If you'd like to reapply in the future, you'll need to demonstrate six months of sobriety with documented testing, proof of employment, and resolution of outstanding criminal charges." She walked to the door, opened it. "The Station does offer resources for addiction support. I can provide you with information on—"
"I don't need rehab!" Nico stood, anger and humiliation burning through him. "I need a place to live that doesn't smell like piss and have broken gravity every other week! I got money, real money, I can prove it—"
"Sir, please lower your voice."
"I got bank codes right here!" He fumbled for his pocket, for the data core he'd been stupid enough to bring with him. "I can show you the accounts, I can transfer money right now—"
"Security."
The word cut through his panic. Nico looked up and saw a guard materializing from somewhere down the hall—big guy, hand on his shock stick, face impassive.
The woman's expression was stone now. "Sir, you need to leave. If you refuse, you'll be removed and banned from all Station administrative facilities."
Nico looked at her. At the guard. At the clean blue walls and the holographic apartment listings and the whole fucking system that had just told him—again, always, forever—that he wasn't good enough. That he didn't belong. That no amount of money would ever change what he was.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "Yeah, okay. I'm going."
He walked past the guard, through the waiting room, out into the Level 6 concourse. His hands were shaking. His throat was tight. He wanted to hit something, wanted to scream, wanted to use so badly his teeth hurt.
Fifty million credits and he couldn't even get a fucking apartment application approved.
The concourse was busy—mid-shift change, people moving between residential and commercial districts. Everyone looked... normal. Clean clothes, purposeful expressions, nobody looking over their shoulder or checking for security. Just people living their lives, going home to places with doors that locked and water that ran and floors that stayed put.
Nico found a bench and sat. Pulled out his tablet—the cheap one, not the one with the core—and pulled up the housing code she'd cited. Section 47-B.
Applicants with criminal records including but not limited to: violent offenses, theft, fraud, or drug-related charges within the past five years are ineligible for housing at Levels 6 and above. Exceptions may be granted upon demonstration of rehabilitation, including but not limited to: completion of court-ordered treatment programs, six months documented sobriety, stable employment, and character references from Station-recognized institutions.
Six months sobriety. Stable employment. Character references from Station-recognized institutions.
He laughed. Couldn't help it. The sound came out bitter and sharp.
He'd been clean for four days once. Longest four days of his life. Kade had to bring him free Veil just to keep him from dying. And employment—what Station-recognized institution was going to vouch for a Level 8 dealer? Maya? She'd tried. God knows she'd tried. But her boss had made it clear Nico was a liability, not a project.
The money didn't matter. None of it mattered. The system had already decided what he was nine years ago when he caught his first charge. Everything since then was just... confirmation.
His tablet buzzed. Kade.
How'd it go?
Nico stared at the message. Kade had told him this would happen. Had said, very clearly, that walking in cold was a bad idea. That they needed to set up shell companies, fake employment histories, bribe someone to scrub his record first. But Nico had wanted to try it straight. Wanted to believe that the money—real, legitimate access to generational wealth—would be enough.
Idiot.
He typed back: Strike one. They've got rules for everything.
Told you. Want me to set up the shell game?
Nico thought about it. About fake companies and false employment records and bribing someone to hack the Station database and erase his charges. About spending hundreds of thousands of credits to pretend to be someone he wasn't just to get permission to live somewhere better than a pod with broken plumbing.
Yeah, he typed. But I'm going to try something else first.
What?
Bribing someone who can actually help.
There was a long pause. Then: Be careful, kid. Everyone in the middle tiers knows a desperate mark when they see one.
I'll be fine.
He wouldn't be fine. But he had fifty million credits and a burning need to prove that money actually fucking mattered for something.
Nico rode the lift back down to Level 8. The descent was familiar—the gradual decay of infrastructure, the increasing smell, the shift in the people around him from purposeful to exhausted to wary. By the time the doors opened on District Four, he was back in his world. His real world. The one he couldn't buy his way out of.
The Archway Pods came into view—rows of sleeping capsules stacked four high, each one barely big enough to lie down in. His pod was third level, halfway down the row. Home for the past six years.
He needed to use. The craving was singing in his blood, amplified by humiliation and anger and the crushing weight of knowing he'd been stupid enough to hope.
But he had work to do first.
Nico climbed into his pod, pulled out his real tablet—the one with the core access—and started researching. Housing officials who'd been disciplined for taking bribes. Mid-level bureaucrats with expensive habits and gambling debts. Anyone who might be desperate or greedy enough to help him for the right price.
The money had to matter. It had to mean something.
It had to be enough.
Because if it wasn't—if fifty million credits couldn't buy him out of Level 8—then he really was trapped forever.
And Nico Chen was done accepting forever.