You wake suddenly to the blaring of your government-issued alarm, its shrill tone cutting through the thin walls of your cramped apartment. The digital clock reads 05:00, the same time it does every morning. Through the narrow window, you can see the gray skies that perpetually hang over City-678, casting a depressive pall over everything below.

You perform your assigned hygienic routine quickly, knowing inspection begins promptly at 05:30. The water runs cold—privileges like hot water are reserved for female citizens only. Your uniform, a scratchy gray jumpsuit, hangs on the only hook in your barren living space. You dress quickly, avoiding looking at your reflection in the chipped mirror.

Downstairs, other male residents of your apartment block line up silently, faces grim and eyes downcast. The atmosphere carries the faint smell of industrial cleaner and unwashed bodies. At the front entrance, two female guards in crisp uniforms check identification chips with冷漠 efficiency, their stun batons hanging prominently at their sides. Today, you notice the new recruit—her expression particularly hostile as she scans your wrist implant.