Kade's plan was actually pretty smart.
"You can't move up as yourself," he'd said, slouched in his apartment with a cigarette dangling from his lips. "Record's too dirty, background's too messy. But a business? Businesses don't have addiction problems. Businesses don't have arrest records. Businesses are just... numbers and permits."
"So I start a business."
"You start a shell company. Register it to a clean identity—someone Level 7 or above, someone with no record, someone who technically owns the business while you run it anonymously. You funnel money through the company, establish it as legitimate, then use business credentials to rent in Level 6." Kade had tapped ash into a recycled cup. "Corporations get more rights than people in this station. Might as well use that."
It had sounded reasonable. More than reasonable—it sounded like an actual plan, something with layers and strategy instead of Nico's desperate solo attempts.
They'd spent three days setting it up. Kade knew people—former military contacts, black market brokers, a woman in Level 7 Records who owed him a favor from years back. They created Chen Logistics LLC, registered to a fabricated identity named Marcus Webb (ironic, considering Nico had just lost fifty grand to a fake Marcus). Webb had a clean Level 7 address, no criminal record, employment history going back fifteen years in station maintenance.
Webb didn't exist, but on paper, he was perfect.
Chen Logistics would be a parts supply business—sourcing components for station maintenance, dealing with lower-tier manufacturers and upper-tier buyers. Legitimate industry. Needed service. The kind of unglamorous but essential work that kept stations running.
Nico had transferred two hundred and fifty thousand credits into the company account. Enough to look serious, not enough to attract investigation. They'd rented a small office space in Level 7, furnished it with minimal equipment, even hired two people (both from Level 8, both desperate for legitimate work) to staff it.
On paper, Chen Logistics was a real business with real employees and real capital.
All Nico needed was the permits to operate.
The Level 7 Business Licensing Office smelled like bureaucracy—recycled air with a hint of printer toner and old coffee. The walls were painted institutional beige. The furniture was functional and impersonal. A dozen people sat in waiting chairs, all holding tablets, all looking like they'd rather be anywhere else.
Nico checked in at the kiosk, took his number, sat down to wait.
He'd dressed carefully this time. Business casual. Clean clothes that actually fit. Hair combed. He'd even skipped his morning vial, wanting to be clearheaded for this. The craving sang at the edges of his awareness but he could manage. He could do this sober.
He had to.
"Number seventy-three?"
Nico stood, followed the clerk—a middle-aged woman with tired eyes and a station bureaucrat uniform—to a desk in a row of identical desks.
"Application for business operating permit," she said, not looking up from her terminal. "Company name?"
"Chen Logistics LLC."
She typed. "Type of business?"
"Parts supply. Station maintenance components."
More typing. "Registered owner?"
"Marcus Webb."
She paused. Looked at her screen. Looked at Nico.
"And you are?"
"Nico Chen. I'm the... operations manager."
"But not the registered owner."
"No. Webb handles the administrative side. I manage day-to-day operations."
She made a note. "I'll need documentation proving your employment authorization from Webb."
Nico pulled out his tablet, brought up the forged employment contract Kade's contact had created. It looked legitimate—official letterhead, signatures, employment terms. The woman scanned it with her terminal.
"This says you've been employed for six months."
"Yeah. We operated informally while we were getting set up. Now we're ready to formalize."
She didn't look convinced but she continued typing. "I'll need to verify Webb's identity and registration. Hold on."
Nico waited. Around him, other applicants typed on tablets, spoke in low voices to clerks, filled out forms. Ordinary people doing ordinary business. He could do this. He could be one of them.
The woman's expression shifted. Subtle, but Nico had learned to read bureaucratic faces. That was the look of someone who'd just found a problem.
"Mr. Chen, I'm showing some inconsistencies in the documentation."
His stomach dropped. "What kind of inconsistencies?"
"Marcus Webb's address shows as Level 7, District Five, but there's no record of him in the residential database at that location. His employment history shows fifteen years at Station Maintenance, but when I cross-reference with their records, there's no Marcus Webb in their employee files."
"That's—there must be an error. Database glitch, yeah?"
"Additionally, the company registration shows Chen Logistics was filed three days ago, but the employment contract is dated six months ago. That's impossible."
Nico's mind raced. "The registration got delayed. We filed months ago but it took time to process—"
"Mr. Chen, I'm going to ask you directly: is Marcus Webb a real person?"
Silence. Around them, other conversations continued. Someone laughed at a joke. A printer hummed to life. Normal sounds of normal business.
"Yes," Nico said. Not convincing even to himself.
The woman sighed. She'd probably had this conversation before. "I'm going to run a background check on you. Standard procedure for all applicants listed as having operational control of a business. Is there anything you'd like to disclose?"
Fuck.
"I got a record," Nico said quietly. "But it's just—it's minor stuff. Possession charges. Nothing violent, nothing financial. I'm not running a scam here, I got legitimate capital and legitimate business plans—"
She was already shaking her head. "Business operating permits require criminal background checks on all listed operators. Drug-related convictions within the past seven years are grounds for automatic denial per Station Commerce Code Section 89-C."
"Seven years? That's—why seven? Why does it matter if I had possession charges six years ago when I'm trying to run a parts supply business?"
"Station commerce regulations are designed to prevent criminal enterprises from establishing legitimate fronts." Her voice was flat, rehearsed. "Drug trafficking frequently uses shell companies for money laundering. The seven-year threshold—"
"I'm not trafficking! I'm trying to start a legitimate business with legitimate money!"
"Mr. Chen, please lower your voice."
He was standing now, didn't remember getting up. Other applicants were looking at him. The clerk's hand moved subtly toward something under her desk—probably a silent alarm.
"I got five million credits in that company account," Nico said, desperate. "Real money. Employees. Office space. Everything by the book. I just need the permit—"
"The permit will be denied. I'm sorry, but with your criminal record, you're ineligible to operate a business at Levels 7 and above." She was already closing his file. "You can apply for a Level 8 vendor license, but those don't require—"
"Level 8 doesn't have business permits! It's all black market and gig economy because there's no infrastructure for legitimate business!" Nico's voice was rising, he couldn't stop it. "That's the whole fucking point, yeah? Keep us down there, keep us informal, keep us illegal so we can never build anything that matters!"
"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."
"I'm trying to do this RIGHT! I'm trying to follow your fucking rules and you keep moving the target!" He gestured at the room, at all the other applicants who were definitely calling security now. "How is anyone supposed to escape if every door has a different lock and none of them open?"
"Security," the woman said into her terminal.
Two guards appeared—massive guys, hands on shock sticks. They didn't grab Nico but they positioned themselves on either side of him, making the threat clear.
"Come on, kid," one of them said. Not unkindly. "Time to go."
Nico looked at the clerk, at her tired eyes and carefully neutral expression. She'd probably denied a hundred applications this month. Probably heard variations of his speech a dozen times. Probably went home at the end of her shift and didn't think about the people she'd barred from building something.
"Yeah," Nico said quietly. "Okay."
He let the guards escort him out. They were professional about it—no force, no violence, just firm insistence. They walked him to the lift, watched him get in, waited until the doors closed.
Nico rode down in silence.
The lift passed Level 8, went all the way to 9 before he realized he'd pressed the wrong button. He stood in the Level 9 concourse—worse than 8, closer to the station's outer hull, where gravity was weaker and the air was thicker with industrial exhaust.
People here looked different than Level 8. Not worse, exactly. Just... further from the center of things. More forgotten.
He pulled out his tablet, messaged Kade: Denied. They saw through Webb.
The response came fast: Fuck. How bad?
Background check flagged me. Commerce Code Section 89-C. Seven-year ban on anyone with drug convictions.
Seven YEARS?
They really don't want us to succeed.
There was a long pause. Then: What's next?
Nico stared at the message. What was next? He'd tried legitimate applications. Tried bribes. Tried shell companies and fake identities. He'd thrown money at the problem, thrown strategy at it, thrown everything he had at it.
And the answer kept coming back the same: No. You don't belong here. You never will.
Maya's words echoed: The system isn't broken. It's working exactly as designed.
I don't know, Nico typed back. Going to think for a while.
He rode the lift back up to Level 8. His pod was exactly where he'd left it—third level, halfway down the row, barely big enough to lie down in. Home.
He climbed inside, pulled out his real tablet, looked at the accounts. Still over 49 million credits. Enough to change everything.
Except it didn't change anything. Couldn't change anything. The money was useless against locked doors and systemic barriers and regulations specifically designed to keep people like him in places like this.
The craving was screaming now. Hours without using. He needed—
Nico pulled out his stash. Looked at the vials. Thought about Maya's suggestion: Use the money for something else.
What else was there? If he couldn't escape, if the money couldn't buy him out, what was the point of having it?
He used. One vial. Let the Veil soften the edges of failure and humiliation and trapped-trapped-trapped.
When the high settled into manageable numbness, he looked at his tablet again. At the accounts. At the money that meant everything and nothing.
Maya had said: Make life more survivable for the people trapped there with you.
Not escape. Not redemption. Just... survival.
What would that even look like?
Nico pulled up his messages, scrolled back through his conversation with Maya. Found the line he was looking for: Maybe it starts with someone who has fifty million credits and nothing left to lose.
He had the credits. He'd definitely lost everything else—hope of escape, belief in the system, faith that effort mattered.
Nothing left to lose.
The idea that had been forming since Maya's apartment, that had been growing through each rejection and failure, finally crystallized into something concrete.
If he couldn't leave Level 8, maybe he could change it. Not dismantle the system—he wasn't that naive. But make it more livable. More survivable. More... human.
He opened a new search on his tablet: Level 8 businesses for sale.
The list was short. Depressing. A few vendor stalls. A repair shop. A noodle house that had been there since Nico was nineteen.
Chen's Noodle House. He ate there twice a week. Had for years.
He pulled up the listing. Mrs. Chen was selling. Retiring to live with her daughter in Level 7. Asking price: 100,000 credits.
Nico stared at the number. A hundred thousand. He'd lost fifty thousand to a con artist without blinking. He had millions just sitting in accounts.
What if...
He'd think about it. Later. When he was sober.
But the seed was planted. And for the first time in weeks, Nico felt something that wasn't desperation or rage.
It might have been purpose.
Or it might have been the Veil.
He'd find out soon enough.