EXPIRATION DATE

Elias flinched. His body, not yet fully awake, instinctively contracted, the muscles of his back cramping. His eyelids snapped open, but before his eyes there was only the white lid of the capsule - smooth, sterile, with barely noticeable micro-cracks from age. He had been looking at it for four years. One thousand four hundred sixty days. One thousand four hundred sixty morning impulses. One thousand four hundred sixty times he had been torn from sleep. He knew every curve of the plastic, every scratch left by previous users he had never seen. Sometimes he thought he could distinguish on the surface of the capsule the traces of other fingers - those who had lain here before him, who had also woken under this impulse, who had also hated this white ceiling. He did not know what happened to them. Maybe they got promoted. Maybe they were downgraded to "Consumable." Maybe they died right here, in this capsule, and the system simply erased their data and loaded new ones. He was not told. He did not need to know.

The capsule was his coffin by night and his prison by morning. It smelled of disinfectant and cold metal, with a faint hint of ozone produced by the air purifiers. This smell had seeped into his clothes, his skin, his lungs. He did not really smell it - he just knew it was there, as he knew his own heartbeat. The smell had become part of him, like the white walls, the synthesized air, and the sound of his own heart.

The neural interface pulsed again, quieter this time but more insistent, forcing him to focus on the inner surface of the lid. There, on the built-in display, the familiar hologram lit up. A bright, unnatural blue color cut into his eyes. Elias squinted every morning, but the system protocol had no brightness settings. "For your own safety," the instructions said. He had not bothered to dispute it. Disputing the system was recorded as "disloyal behavior" and led to a reduction in his Purity Coefficient. He had already checked.

The hologram formed into words, and a voice, synthesized to the point where nothing human remained in it, began its monotonous broadcast. In this voice there were no intonations, no emotions, not even a hint that its creator had ever experienced fatigue, pain, or fear. It was just a mechanism, reciting pre-written text. Every morning the same text. Every morning the same words. And every morning Elias felt his stomach clench with nausea.

"Good morning, Elias Hall. Identification number: EH-4492-Gamma. Status: active employee, category 'Purger,' 3rd level. Your Purity Coefficient: 68%. Warning: critical Purity Coefficient level is 65%. Dropping below the permissible norm within 72 hours will result in automatic reclassification to the category 'Consumable Material' with annulment of all social guarantees, medical insurance, and the right to reside in zone 'Beta-7.' Additional notice: annulment of insurance entails the disconnection of all non-emergency medical functions, including maintenance of implanted devices. Failure to maintain implanted devices within 30 days is classified as 'voluntary euthanasia.'"

Elias blinked. Sixty-eight percent. Yesterday it was sixty-nine. A month ago - seventy-two. A year ago, when he first started working, it was eighty-three. He was falling. Slowly, inexorably, like mercury in an old thermometer, centimeter by centimeter approaching the red line beyond which lay death. A little more, and he would become just like those he "purged." Consumable material. A word that in the system's mouth sounded like a sentence, but in his colleagues' mouths - like a grim joke. "Expendable," they said in the bar, raising glasses of synthesized alcohol. "We'll all become expendable someday. It's just a matter of time." They laughed, but there was no joy in their laughter. Only fear disguised as cynicism.

He knew why his PC was falling. Not from stress, not from work, not from insomnia. But because he kept feeling. Every morning, waking up, he saw the white ceiling before him and heard the sound of his own heart. And in those seconds, between the impulse and the hologram, he allowed himself to be human. He allowed himself to think about what he was doing. He allowed himself to feel pain. And the system recorded it as an "empathic shift." Empathy was a luxury he could not afford. It reduced his efficiency. It made him weak. It brought him closer to death.

"Recommended action protocol: reduce cortisol levels to 30 ng/ml. Increase physical activity by 15% during morning session. Avoid unauthorized contact with defective assets. Psychological profile indicates risk of empathic shift. It is strongly recommended to attend a values correction session. Failure to follow recommendations within 14 days is classified as a violation of clause 7.4 of the Corporation's Labor Code, which entails a fine of 2000 credits and a reduction in access level. Repeated violation of clause 7.4 within 6 months entails automatic transfer to the category 'Consumable Material.'"

Elias did not move. He lay motionless, staring at the white ceiling of the capsule, listening to his artificial heart beating out its rhythm. It did so with mechanical precision, with that flawless synchronization that only factory settings could provide, and this rhythm was the only constant in his life. Vzh-vzh-vzh. A low, vibrating sound that his own body made every second. A sound he hated more than holographic reminders, more than synthesized food, more than the corporation itself. A sound that reminded him he no longer belonged to himself. That his heart was a product that could be replaced, like an old battery. That his body was just a container for parts.

He remembered that as a child he had a real heart. Or he thought he remembered. Memories of "before" were blurry, like old video recordings made on cheap media and overwritten several times. He remembered warmth. Remembered running on grass - real grass that smelled of earth and rain, not the synthesized scent that imitated greenery. Remembered the smell of bread. Real bread, baked by his mother. Remembered her hands - warm, rough from work, but so alive. Remembered her smile. She smiled rarely, but when she did, he felt the world was not so bad. Then debts came. Or illness. Or the system simply decided his biological heart was no longer efficient. He was eight when they came for him. "Medical examination," they told his mother. "Routine procedure." She did not argue. She could not argue. She already owed the corporation more than she could earn in three lifetimes.

He did not remember being taken to the clinic. Did not remember the operation. Did not remember the doctors' faces. He remembered only waking up in a white room, like the one he lived in now, and realizing something in his chest had changed. Something was humming. Vzh-vzh-vzh. He was scared. He cried. But the nurse standing beside him just patted his head and said: "Don't cry, little one. Now you will live longer. The corporation will take care of you." She smiled at him, but there was no warmth in her smile. It was as mechanical as his new heart. He did not know then that this mechanical smile would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Now he looked at his fingers. They lay on top of the thin, almost transparent blanket the capsule dispensed with the morning protocol. The blanket was warm, but he did not feel its warmth. His skin had lost sensitivity several years ago, when he started working in low-temperature sectors. His fingers were his own, but they seemed foreign - pale, with bluish veins visible under the thin skin, with calluses on the pads that did not go away even on weekends. He slowly clenched them into a fist, feeling his joints emit a slight crack. His body demanded movement, but his mind desperately clung to stillness, trying to extend those few seconds when he was not yet part of the system. Those few seconds when he could just be himself - tired, broken, frightened, not wanting to get up. Wanting only to lie and stare at the white ceiling until his heart beat in time with the silence.

"Today I'll ask for a replacement," he habitually thought, repeating the lie to himself for the thousandth time. He imagined walking into the medical block, pointing at his heart. "I need a new one. It's making a sound. It's annoying. It's affecting my productivity." He even imagined the doctor's reaction. He would look at him with mechanical indifference, check the database, and deliver his signature line: "Replacing a 5th-generation heart module is not covered by your insurance package. The procedure costs 45,000 credits. We recommend reassessing priorities and applying for a promotion to 2nd level." And how to get promoted to second level if you need to work 30% more efficiently, but the heart hums and takes away that very 30%? A vicious circle. Clever, well-designed, absolutely ruthless, like everything the corporation created.

And he knew there was no way out of this circle. He had read the stories of others - purgers like him who had tried to fight. They wrote complaints, submitted applications, appealed to corporate lawyers. All useless. The system always found a way to say no. "Your Purity Coefficient is not high enough." "Your work discipline leaves much to be desired." "You do not meet the requirements for this procedure." And every time they heard these words, they gave up. They stopped fighting, because fighting required energy, and they had none. They just kept working, kept killing, kept falling, until their PC reached the critical mark, and they themselves became "Consumable Material."

He took a deep breath. The synthesized air smelled of ozone and plastic. He looked at his fingers again. They were still trembling. He clenched them into a fist, harder, so the pain of his nails digging into his palms would drown out that mechanical hum in his chest.

I don't want to die, - he whispered into the void.

But the room did not answer. And he began to open the capsule lid.

The capsule lid rose with a soft hiss, and synthesized cold air hit Elias's face. He slowly sat up, feeling his body protest against every movement. His muscles ached - a familiar pain that had become his constant companion. He did not remember the last time he woke without feeling as if he had been beaten. Maybe a year ago. Maybe five years ago. He had long stopped counting.

Elias placed his feet on the floor - warm, smooth, synthetic. The floor was one of those that never cooled, because the heating system ran around the clock. A frozen asset is an inefficient asset. He stood up, and his knees cracked, the sound echoing through the tiny room. He was naked. His skin was pale, almost white, with a bluish tint that appears on people who have not seen sunlight for years. His body was thin - ribs visible through the skin, shoulders narrow, muscles weak. It was the body of a man who never ate his fill. The body of an asset fed just enough to work.

Elias turned to the mirror. The mirror was not simple glass - it was a screen. A built-in touch display that showed not his reflection, but his data. He stepped closer, and the screen immediately activated, scanning his face, his body, his biometrics. On the surface of the screen, the familiar hologram lit up:

"Elias Hall. Identification number: EH-4492-Gamma. Age: 34 years (biological). Chronological age: 44 years (taking into account cryopreservation at age 10). Life expectancy: 51 years. Recommended: liver replacement in 6 years. Procedure cost: 450,000 credits. Current balance: 12,000 credits. Recommended income level to cover procedure: promotion to 2nd level in 8 years, provided current work pace is maintained. Alternative option: loan at 24% annual interest with repayment over 15 years. Please review terms at the nearest financial terminal."

Elias smirked. The smirk was crooked, tired, devoid of any amusement. Four hundred fifty thousand credits. He had twelve thousand. He needed to live another eight years to save up for a new liver. But his PC was falling, and in eight years he would either become consumable material or die from heart failure. The system gave him a goal he could never achieve. And he knew it. He knew it as well as the sound of his own heart.

Thank you for the information, - he said to the mirror. His voice was hoarse, and he coughed, clearing his throat. The hologram did not respond. The mirror was a screen, not a person.

He stepped away from the mirror and stood in the center of the room. Here, in his capsule-apartment, it was cramped. Three by three meters. White walls, white floor, white ceiling. The sleeping capsule, a table, a mirror, and a window. Everything else - emptiness. A place where you could live, but not feel alive.

Elias looked at the window. It was small, narrow, located just under the ceiling. Through it, the city "New Tokyo-3" was visible. The sky was gray - not from clouds, but from smog synthesized by "Techno-Sphere." This was not natural smog, but artificial. A specially created climate control that regulated temperature, precipitation, and even lighting. "Techno-Sphere" called it "optimization of living space." Elias called it a cage. Because that was exactly what it looked like - a cage where all users were locked.

Below, on the endless levels of the city, advertising holograms flickered. Bright, flashy, projected directly onto the windows of skyscrapers. "Genesis - your life in our hands!" "Agro-Continent - we feed the world!" "Cyber-Fund - your path to immortality!" Patrol drones - black, with red lights - silently glided between buildings, scanning for violations. They were everywhere. They were part of this world, like the very air he breathed.

Above the city hung a giant screen - one of those that broadcast corporate news to the entire city. Elias often looked at it in the mornings. Not because he was interested, but because his gaze automatically gravitated to that bright spot in the gray sky. Today, on the screen, appeared the face of an elderly man - gray hair, harsh features, cold blue eyes. Elias recognized him. Marcus Vos. The head of Genesis Corporation. The one who had created this heart that hummed in his chest.

The announcer's voice echoed through the city:

Attention, users! The head of Genesis Corporation, Marcus Vos, announces the launch of a new batch of clone-employees. Expiration date - 8 years. Contracts can be signed at any terminal within the next 72 hours. Remember: a clone is your asset. Work efficiently, manage it correctly, and it will bring you profit. Do not let it depreciate. Every clone is an investment. Every clone is your future.

Elias turned away from the window. He had heard this news ten times in recent days. The corporation constantly launched new batches of clones. They were cheap labor, ideal assets that did not complain, did not rebel, did not ask for raises. They just worked until their expiration date. And then they were disposed of. Like trash.

He walked to the center of the room. The system in his head had already launched the "Morning Activation" program. He felt it as a slight tingling in the back of his head - the neural interface was connecting to his motor cortex, beginning to synchronize his movements with the protocol. He could not resist it. Even if he tried, the neural interface would simply forcibly activate his muscles. He had tried once, in his first month of work. He refused to do the exercises, and the system simply "took control." His body began to move on its own. It was terrifying. He felt his arms rise, his legs bend, his muscles tense - and he could not control it. That was when he understood his body no longer belonged to him. That it was just a tool the system used whenever it wanted.

He began doing squats. The neural interface counted every movement, every second, every degree of knee bend. If he deviated from the protocol by even a millimeter, the system sent a brief warning impulse - an electric shock that hit his nerve endings. It was painful. Not severely, but enough for him to remember.

Ten squats. Twenty. Thirty. His muscles ached. He felt his knees creak with each repetition, his back begin to ache, his artificial heart accelerate. Vzh-vzh-vzh. The sound became louder, faster. Elias closed his eyes and tried to focus on his breathing, but instead he only heard that mechanical rhythm beating in his chest. He hated that sound. He hated everything associated with it. But he kept squatting.

After squats - push-ups. He lay on the floor, feeling the white surface press against his palms. The floor was warm, but that was the only sensation he could distinguish. He began lowering himself down. Slowly, smoothly, as taught. His elbows bent, chest muscles tensed, shoulders began to burn. The system showed his indicators on the internal screen - right before his eyes, in the corner of his field of vision. Heart rate, breathing, cortisol level. All in the green zone. All "normal." Elias did not believe these numbers. He knew they were falsified. That the system adjusted them so he would not worry. But he no longer cared.

After push-ups - stretching. The neural interface forced him to bend forward, reach for his toes. His spine cracked, and he felt a slight pain in his lower back. He held the position, feeling blood rush to his head. The room swayed before his eyes. He closed his eyelids, trying to keep his balance.

"How many more mornings like this?" he asked himself. "How many more days? How many more years?"

There was no answer. And he knew he did not want to know it.

He straightened up and walked to the window. Looked at the city again. Below, somewhere on the lower levels, people hurried to work. Assets just like him. They did not look up. They did not look at each other. They just walked, heads down, following their protocols.

Above his head, the news screen hummed again. This time, the face of a young woman appeared. Red hair, green eyes, a wide smile. Elias stopped. He looked at this face, and something in his chest stirred. Beautiful. Very beautiful. But not in the way actresses on holograms are beautiful. There was something alive in her. Something he had not seen for years. She smiled as if she knew something he did not.

"Iris Vos," he read on the screen. "Granddaughter of the head of Genesis. She helped a runaway clone. She is a traitor."

Elias looked at her and felt a strange excitement. Traitor. The word sounded like something dangerous, forbidden. And at the same time - like something alluring. She had done what he himself had dreamed of for years. She said "no." She risked everything. Why? For a clone. For someone who was not even considered human in the system's eyes.

"Why?" he asked her mentally. But the screen had already switched to another news story. Iris Vos disappeared, replaced by an advertisement for synthetic food.

Elias turned away from the window. His body had finished the exercises. The neural interface disconnected, and he felt his muscles relax, his breathing return to normal. The workout was over. Now - dressing. Another step toward his workday.

Elias turned to the wardrobe. The wardrobe was not furniture - it was a functional wall that opened with a gesture. He raised his hand, and the white panel slid silently aside, revealing three identical gray jumpsuits. They hung on identical plastic hangers, spaced at identical distances. Everything identical. No choice. No individuality.

Elias took the first jumpsuit. The fabric was synthetic, dense, with a barely noticeable texture. It smelled of plastic - the same synthetic smell that was everywhere in this world. He put it on, feeling the material coldly cling to his skin. The jumpsuit was tight-fitting but did not restrict movement - it was designed so the asset could work efficiently. On the chest, on the left side, was a patch: "Corrector. Disposal Department. Class C." This was his identification. His status. His place in the hierarchy.

He ran his finger over the patch. The embroidery was rough, plastic, with embossed letters that did not fade even after hundreds of washes. "Class C." Third level. Not the lowest, but not high either. There was Class D - "Consumable Material." Class B - "Senior Corrector." Class A - "Inspector." He was somewhere in the middle. High enough to have insurance, but not high enough to have a life.

On the belt of the jumpsuit were attachments. Standard set: terminal, taser, sedative dispenser. The terminal - a small black plastic rectangle that connected to his neural interface. It showed the time, his PC, his work schedule, and his credit balance. The taser - the weapon he used for "purging." It was light, almost weightless, and always in its place. The dispenser - a small cylinder of liquid. "Sedative," the instructions read. "For reducing stress in users with high cortisol levels." Elias never used it. He preferred to keep his demons in his head, not in his pocket.

He checked the terminal. The screen lit up, showing twelve notifications. Eleven were system-generated - reports, receipts, payment notices. He scrolled through them without reading. He knew their content by heart: "You spent X credits on Y. Your balance is Z." He did not care. Money came and went, like everything in his life.

One notification stood out. It was from the head of department - J.S. The man who managed his work, his schedule, his life. Elias had never seen his face. He knew only his voice - sharp, dry, emotionless - and his signature at the end of every message. "Head of Department J.S." Letters without a name. Only initials. As if he himself were an asset. Or as if he did not want Elias to know who he really was.

Elias opened the message. The text was short, direct, without unnecessary words:

"Hall. Today 12 defects in sector D-7. Time: 09:00. Don't be late. Your PC is falling. I don't want to write you off as an asset. You're still useful. Execute your work efficiently, and I'll keep your place. Head of Department J.S."

Elias read the message twice. Then a third time. There was no threat in it - only a statement of facts. But he knew that behind these words lay a warning. "You're still useful." The word "still" was key. It meant his usefulness could end at any moment. That if he did not handle the work - or if his PC dropped another couple of percent - he would be replaced. By someone else. Someone more efficient. Someone young, whose heart did not hum.

He closed the message and put the terminal back on his belt. His hands were not trembling. He was used to such warnings. They came every few weeks - reminders that he was not a person but an asset. That his existence depended on his efficiency. That if he ceased to be useful - he would simply be thrown away.

He looked at himself in the mirror. Gray jumpsuit, pale face, dark circles under his eyes. He looked like an asset. He looked like part of the system. And he felt like one too.

You are not human, - he said to his reflection. - You are consumable material.

The words hung in the air. The mirror did not answer. It continued to show his face - tired, pale, lifeless. Elias turned away and walked toward the door.

He left the capsule-apartment into the corridor. The corridor was long, white, windowless. Like a tunnel - straight, endless, monotonous. On both sides stretched doors. As white as his door. Behind each lived an asset like him. Men and women who woke to the impulse, did exercises, dressed, and went to work. They did not talk to each other. They did not look at each other. They were alone in this white tunnel, like him.

Elias walked slowly, hearing the echo of his steps. The synthesized air smelled of ozone. Somewhere in the distance, ventilation hummed - a monotonous sound that never ceased. He heard this hum every day, every night. It had become part of him, like the sound of his own heart.

He stopped for a moment. From behind the wall to his right, he heard coughing - dry, tearing, prolonged. It was his neighbor coughing. An old man who worked in the Agro-Continent mines. Elias did not know his name. He never asked. He only knew the neighbor coughed every morning. Sometimes the coughing lasted several minutes - dry, tearing, as if he were trying to cough up his lungs. Elias heard it and could do nothing. He just walked past.

"His expiration date - 2 months," he remembered. The system had announced it two weeks ago. "Employee B.V. from the mining department. Expiration date: expires in 2 months. Recommended: prepare replacement." Elias had read that notice and thought: "In two months he will die. And two months after that, he'll be replaced by someone else. And so it will always be. Until someone dies sooner."