Outside, the district is waking under that dirty red-gold light Mars always throws over everything. It makes the walls look rusted. Every poor block seems to be one bad day away from collapsing into the dust. Delivery carts hum past. Steam spills from food stalls I can’t afford. Public display screens flash work postings, debt alerts, ad loops, and security warnings in bright, ugly colors. Above all of it is the dome haze and that same feeling this whole planet runs on the same three things. Labor. Heat. Desperation.
I go first to the laundry compound. Sometimes they need extra hands when shipments run high. I wait in line. Step up. Open my mouth.
The woman at intake barely lets me finish before she shakes her head.
“Full. Try next week.”
Next week. I don’t even know if I’ll still have a room next week.
I leave and try a warehouse. Then a cleaning station. Then a protein processing line that smells so foul it sears the inside of my nose before I even make it through the doors. Everywhere is the same. No openings. Not enough hours. Temporary only. Try another district.
I’m coming back out of the processing line when one of the supervisors follows me. I hear him before I turn. His steps are heavy. He thinks he knows how this will go. He’s broad through the middle, thick-necked, clean in that way men are when they don’t do the hard work themselves. He smiles at me like we’re sharing something private.
“You need work?” he asks.
My mouth firms. I already know from his tone he’s not talking about being on the payroll.
“I asked inside,” I say.
“Inside is full.”
His eyes move down my body and back up. Slow. Comfortable. Like he already knows what kind of woman I am.
“But there are other ways to be useful.”
My shoulders go hard.
“No.”
He shrugs. Still smiling.
“You’re too proud for your block, girl. Pride gets expensive.”
I walk away before he can say more, but I can feel his eyes on my back. I feel it all the way down the street.
By midday my legs hurt. My head feels woozy. The smell of frying oil from the food strip hits me so hard my stomach clenches, and I have to stop for a second just to breathe through it.
I check my wrist tag. Count the credits once. Then again. The number is still tiny. If I buy food, I fall shorter on rent. If I save it, I might not have enough strength tomorrow to keep going. It’s a stupid choice. A cruel one. The kind poor people get all the time. Pick which problem gets to hurt you first.
In the end, I buy the cheapest cup of broth I can find and stand by a heating vent while I drink it. It tastes like salt, old metal, and something fatty that probably came from a vat, not ananimal. I don’t care. It’s hot. It gives my body something to grab onto for a few minutes.
A group of women passes in fitted clothes and painted mouths, laughing too loudly. For a second I almost think girls. But no. Women. Some younger than me. Some older.
One catches me looking. She gives me a tired little smile. The same look Marai gave me yesterday. The same look that says every woman in this district gets close enough to danger to feel it.
I drop my eyes and finish the broth. I think about going back to my room, but it’s too early. Going back now feels like giving up. Like admitting the day is done and I lost again.
So I head toward the upper walkways near the trade square where private families sometimes post domestic work. The difference hits the second I get there. Cleaner lights. Cleaner walls. Better security. People with better coats and shoes. Even the voices sound different here. Lower. Like people who are used to being heard don’t have to speak as loud. The children have fuller, rounder faces. That part gets to me more than anything.
I stand at the posting board, and shame crawls under my skin so quietly I almost don’t notice it at first. Live-in child care. Companion wanted for elderly father. Sewing contract, references required. House cleaner, bonded applicants only. Bonded. Sponsored. Referenced. Backed by people who matter.
I have none of that. No sponsor. No family name worth saying out loud. No one who can vouch for me beyond the poor block I’m trying not to drown in.
I write my information under one listing anyway, because not trying feels worse somehow, even when I already know by the way the clerk glances at my coat that no one is going to call.
By late afternoon I’m heading home through a side lane because the main strip is too crowded. That’s my mistake.
I hear the footsteps first. Two men. Not close enough yet to cause a scene. Not far enough away for me to pretend it means nothing. My shoulders tighten. I keep walking. Faster.
