EXPIRATION DATE

He walked on. The coughing faded behind him, but it continued to echo in his head. He knew this coughing would haunt him all day. Like all the other sounds he heard in the corridors. Sounds of other people's deaths, other people's illnesses, other people's suffering. He did not want to hear them, but he could not close his ears. They were part of his world. They were part of his life.

He remembered his first day in this apartment. Ten years ago. He was different then - young, stupid, full of hope. He came here with one bag containing his things - a few clothes, an old terminal, a photograph of his mother he had never managed to throw away. He looked at this room, this white space, and thought: "This is temporary. I'll work a couple of years, save some money, move to the green zone. I'll live for real."

He was an idiot. He did not know the system was designed not to let you out. He did not know that the more you worked, the more you owed the corporations. He did not know that every credit he earned was already spent - on maintaining his heart, his housing, his food, his insurance. He worked to pay off debts that grew every day. He was trapped, and he had not even noticed the trap close.

Elias stopped at the exit into the common corridor. There, on the wall, hung a large screen. Such screens hung in every corridor, every station, every public place. They broadcast news, advertisements, announcements. And today the screen was showing her again. Iris Vos. Her face filled the entire screen - beautiful, smiling, with bright red hair falling over her shoulders.

"WANTED!" read the headline. "Iris Vos, granddaughter of the head of Genesis Corporation, wanted for state treason and aiding a fugitive clone, Kane-39. Reward for information leading to her capture: 10 million credits. Turn her in - and you are free forever. Remember: traitors deserve no mercy. Purity Coefficient is our common future."

Elias looked at her face. She smiled in the photograph - a wide, sincere smile he had not seen on anyone in the last ten years. She looked free. She looked alive. She looked as if she knew she was right.

"Why did you do it?" he asked her mentally. "Why help a clone? You're the granddaughter of the head of the corporation. You have everything. You have the green zone, real food, a real heart. Why risk everything?"

The screen did not answer. It continued to show her face, her smile, her red hair. Elias looked at her and felt a strange excitement. It was foolish. It was insane. She was a traitor. She was an enemy of the system. She was an enemy of everything he knew. And at the same time - she was the only thing he had seen in years that looked like freedom.

"She ran away with him," he thought. "She ran away with a clone. She risked her life for someone they don't even consider human. She did what I dream of every morning."

He looked away. He could not look at her anymore. She was too bright for this gray world. She was too alive. She reminded him of who he once was. Or who he would never become.

He walked to the elevator. He had work to do. He had twelve clones in sector D-7. He needed to kill them. And he knew that when he pulled the trigger, he would be thinking of her. Of her smile. Of her red hair. Of the freedom he would never have.

The elevator waited for him at the end of the corridor. Elias approached the doors, and they opened with a soft hiss, inviting him inside. The elevator cabin was as white as everything else - sterile, faceless, with smooth walls reflecting his face. He stepped inside, and the doors closed behind him, cutting him off from the corridor.

The elevator began its descent. Elias stood motionless, looking at his reflection in the metal wall. The metal was polished to a mirror shine - so much so that he could see every wrinkle on his face, every dark circle under his eyes, every gray strand at his temples. This face was familiar, but it seemed foreign. As if he were looking at someone else.

"Who am I?" he thought. "I am Elias Hall. I am 34 years old. I have an artificial heart that hums. I have a PC of 68%. I kill clones. I hate my job. I am afraid to die. That's all I know about myself."

The elevator continued down. Numbers on the panel flashed one after another - 27, 26, 25. He counted them mechanically, as he counted every morning. It was his ritual. His personal way of maintaining control over time. Even here, in this elevator, in this white cabin, he tried to feel he still controlled something.

"Today I will kill 12 people," he thought. "Not people. Clones. They have no names. They have no faces. They only have expiration dates. But when I look into their eyes, I see myself. I see what I will become. I see what awaits me."

The elevator stopped on the first level. Doors opened, letting in light and the sounds of the city. Elias stepped out into a large foyer, where other assets were already crowding, hurrying to work. No one looked at him. He was just another gray jumpsuit, another face in the crowd.

He headed toward the exit. The screen above the entrance showed news again - this time about clones, about new contracts, about how to efficiently use their resource. Elias did not listen. He was thinking about his day. About twelve clones. About his salary. About his PC. About how he would buy synthetic whiskey when he got home.

"Then I'll get 200 credits," he continued thinking. "Then I'll buy whiskey. Then I'll sleep. And tomorrow I'll wake up and do the same thing. This is my life. This is my job. This is all I have."

He stepped out into the street. The city met him with gray skies, holographic signs, and drones silently gliding overhead. Elias took a deep breath. The synthesized air smelled of ozone. He closed his eyes for a second and imagined he was breathing real air. That he was standing in the green zone. That wind touched his face.

But when he opened his eyes, he was still here. In New Tokyo-3. In the world where he was an asset. Where his existence was determined by numbers on a screen. Where his life was not his own.

"But maybe," he thought, "if I do this long enough, I'll save up for a new heart. Or a new PC. Or just for not waking up one day. Maybe one day I just won't wake up. And that will be better than everything I'm doing now."

He walked along the street. His steps were even, confident, mechanical. Like an asset who knows his path. He was walking to sector D-7, to his twelve clones, to his work. And his face showed no expression. Only fatigue. Only acceptance. Only emptiness.

Elias entered the staff cafeteria. A large, white room with long plastic tables built into the floor and plastic chairs that did not move - they were part of the structure. On the walls - holograms advertising corporate products, changing every thirty seconds. "Genesis - care for your life," "Agro-Continent - food for the future," "Cyber-Fund - your digital passport to a new era." Elias did not look at them. He already knew these slogans by heart. They were part of his morning, like the sound of his heart.

The cafeteria was crowded. The queue at the serving counter stretched ten people deep. Elias stood at the end of the queue, feeling his muscles ache after the workout. He looked straight ahead, not meeting the eyes of other users. This was an unspoken rule: do not look. Do not ask questions. Do not show interest. Everyone was on their own, even standing in line beside others.

Ahead of him stood a woman - middle-aged, with short red hair and the same scar on her chest as his. He recognized her. Lynn. Worked in the neighboring sector. They sometimes crossed paths at the bar in the evenings, but never talked about work. It was taboo. You do not talk about your work, because your work is killing. You do not talk about death, because it is everywhere.

Hall, - she said without turning her head. - You look like crap today.

Good morning, Lynn, - he replied with the same tired irony that had become his habit. - You look more cheerful than usual too. Positively blooming.

She smirked - shortly, without warmth.

I'm not blooming, Hall. I'm just showing the system what it wants to see. If you pretend to be happy, the system thinks you're efficient. It works. Try it.

I've tried. Doesn't work for me.

Then you're not trying hard enough.

They fell silent. The queue slowly moved forward. Elias looked at the serving counter, where faceless machines stood. Plastic plates, plastic cups, plastic utensils. Everything synthesized. Everything lifeless. Food that smelled of plastic and had no taste.

What do you think, - said Lynn, still looking straight ahead, - what will happen when we become consumables?

Elias paused. He thought about this often. Every night, lying in his capsule, he asked himself this question. What would happen when his PC dropped below the critical mark? Would his heart be shut off? Would he be sent to the disposer? Would he be made to watch as they took him apart for spare parts?

I don't know, - he answered honestly. - But I know it will happen sooner than I want. It happens to everyone sooner than they want.

We are assets, - said Lynn. - Assets have no right to want.

They reached the serving counter. The machine glowed green, and two plastic trays appeared before them. On each - a portion of synthesized porridge, gray and tasteless, and a glass of water. The same synthesized water that was just liquid but was not wet.

Elias took his tray and walked to an empty table. Lynn sat across from him. They began to eat in silence. The porridge was tasteless, like yesterday, like the day before, like a year ago. It was food, but it was not nourishment. It was just fuel for his body. Fuel that allowed him to continue working.

Elias chewed slowly, feeling the synthesized mass turn into gray sludge in his mouth. He swallowed it because he had to. Because if he did not eat, his PC would fall. And then he would become consumable material.

Today I have twelve, - he said, staring at his plate. - In sector D-7.

I have eleven, - Lynn replied. - In sector D-5. Children.

Elias looked up at her. She stared at her plate, her face expressionless. But in her voice, when she said "children," he heard the same echo he heard in himself every day. An echo that no amount of iron could drown out.

Just do your job, - he said. - Don't think about them. It's the only way to survive.

I know, - Lynn replied. - I don't think anyway. I'm just stating facts.

They fell silent again. The food on their plates gradually disappeared. Elias felt his stomach fill with this synthesized fuel. It was not tasty, not pleasant, not nourishing in the way real food is nourishing. It just dulled hunger. Like water quenches thirst but does not give life.

"I want real food," he thought. "I want bread. I want meat. I want to taste something. Just once in my life."

But he knew real food was only for top managers. For those with PC above ninety percent. For those with real hearts. For those who lived in green zones. For those who did not kill people in the mornings.

Lynn finished eating and pushed her plate away. She looked at Elias, and a shadow of the same fatigue he felt flickered in her eyes.

What do you think, - she asked quietly, - do they feel pain?

Elias froze. He knew she was talking about the clones.

The system says no, - he answered. - The system says their nervous system is modified. That they feel nothing. But I've seen their faces, Lynn. I've seen their eyes. They feel.

Lynn nodded without a word. She stood up and walked toward the exit.

Elias remained sitting at the table, staring at the empty plate. He thought about the twelve clones in sector D-7. About how they would look at him when he entered. About what they would feel when he raised his gun. About what they would think when he pulled the trigger.

"They're just like me," he thought. "They're also assets. They also follow protocols. The only difference is their expiration date has passed. And mine hasn't. Yet."

Elias slowly finished his porridge, trying not to think about what he was eating. The porridge was gray, uniform, with a slight chemical aftertaste that lingered on his tongue long after he swallowed. It was the taste of plastic. The taste of synthesized food produced by Agro-Continent in its laboratories. Food for assets. Food that was not food.

He remembered how his mother used to give him bread as a child. Real bread. Warm, with a crispy crust that crumbled in his fingers, leaving crumbs on the table. He remembered the smell - deep, rich, filling the whole kitchen. He remembered tearing off a piece and feeling the crumb melt in his mouth. It was alive. It was real.

Now he ate gray mass that had no smell, no taste, no form. He swallowed it, feeling nothing but emptiness. And he knew it would always be this way. Until he died. Until he was replaced.

"I remember my mother baking bread," he thought. "She got up early in the morning, when it was still dark. I heard her fussing in the kitchen, the bowls clinking, the flour rustling. I woke up to the smell. The warm smell of bread, wafting through the whole house. I got up, went to the kitchen, and sat at the table. Mother looked at me and smiled. 'Good morning, my little one,' she said. And she gave me a piece of bread. Hot, soft, with butter. I remember that taste. I remember it still."

He closed his eyes. For a moment, he felt the smell of bread fill his consciousness. He could almost taste it. Almost feel the warm crumb touch his tongue. But it was only a mirage. When he opened his eyes, he was looking at his gray plate, and in it was only synthesized porridge.

The taste of plastic, - he said aloud, to no one in particular.

Beside him sat a man he had not noticed. Elderly, with sparse gray hair and deep wrinkles on his face. He looked at Elias with the same tired expression everyone in this cafeteria wore.

Did you say something? - the man asked.

No, - Elias replied. - Nothing important.

The man nodded and returned to his plate. Elias looked at his hands - they trembled. A slight tremor, the same he felt every morning. The man was old. He was about sixty - or more. He was an asset who had long exceeded his expiration date. But somehow he had not been written off yet.

Have you worked here long? - Elias asked, breaking the silence.

The man looked up at him. His eyes held the same emptiness as everyone else's.

Thirty years, - he answered. - Thirty years I've worked for the corporation. They promised me the green zone. Promised me real food. Promised me a pension. Gave me nothing.

Why are you still here? - Elias asked.

The man laughed bitterly, without joy.

Where would I go? - he asked. - The Gray Zones? I'd die there in a week. Here I'll die in a month. The only difference is here I can die in warmth. And eat this porridge.

He raised his plate.

You know, - he said, - when I was young, I thought I could change everything. I thought if I worked well, the system would reward me. I was an idiot. The system doesn't reward. The system takes. It takes your life, your strength, your time. And when you have nothing left to give - it throws you away. Like trash.

He put his spoon on the plate and stood.

My advice to you, kid, - he said, looking down at Elias, - don't hope. Hope kills. If you stop hoping, it'll be easier. You'll become part of the system. You'll become like everyone else. And you won't suffer.

He turned and walked away, leaving Elias alone at the table. Elias watched his retreating back - stooped, slow, old. And he thought: "I don't want to become like that. I don't want to live to sixty and still eat this porridge. I don't want to die in warmth, knowing my life was empty. I want to change something. I want to break out."

But he knew it was impossible. That it was just a dream. Another lie he told himself so he could keep getting up in the mornings.

He finished his porridge and pushed the plate away. The hologram on the wall showed Iris Vos's face again. She smiled, and her red hair shone against the gray cafeteria wall. "Traitor," read the caption. "Fugitive clone." Elias looked at her and felt his heart beat faster. Not from fear. Not from anxiety. From something else. Something he could not explain.

"You are a traitor," he thought. "You risked everything for a clone. You did what I cannot do. You told the system 'no.' You left. You escaped. You are free."

He looked at her smile and thought: "I will never be free. I will die here. In this cafeteria. With this porridge. With this plastic taste in my mouth. And no one will remember me."

He stood and left the cafeteria. The corridor met him with whiteness and silence. He walked toward the exit, toward his workplace, toward his twelve clones. And his face showed no expression. Only fatigue. Only acceptance. Only emptiness.

Elias walked along the corridor when he heard voices. They came from a side passage where utility rooms were located. He slowed his pace, listening. It was not a conversation - it was a farewell ritual. The kind he had heard many times. The kind that always ended in silence.

He turned the corner and saw them. Three clone-cleaners stood at the entrance to the technical room. Their uniforms were old, worn, with faded Agro-Continent logos. They looked alike - pale, thin, with empty eyes and identical scars on their wrists. But one stood out. He stood in the center, and his hands trembled. On his neck was a bandage - not medical, but a marking band. Yellow. The color that meant "expired."

Elias stopped. He should not interfere. It was not his business. Clones were consumable material. When their time ran out, they were disposed of. That was someone else's job, not his. But he could not leave. He watched them and felt his heart beat faster.

Farewell, Rudolph, - said one of the clones, a young man with sparse stubble on his face. - You were a good partner.

Thank you, - Rudolph replied. His voice was quiet, hoarse, with a slight tremor. - I will always remember you.

Where will you go? - asked the third clone, a woman with short dark hair.

Rudolph laughed shortly.

To the disposer, - he said. - Where else?

They fell silent. No one knew what to say. Words were useless. Like hope. Like regrets. Like everything else in this world.

Elias watched them and felt his body tense. He knew he should leave. That he had no right to watch this. That it was too personal, too painful. But he could not look away.

You'll be in his place someday too, - said a quiet voice behind him.

He turned. Beside him stood Lynn. She was watching the clones with the same expression as him - a mixture of fatigue and pain.

I know, - he replied. - I think about it every day.

We all think about it, - said Lynn. - We just don't say it aloud.

They stood and watched the clones say goodbye. Rudolph hugged each of them - long, tight, as if he wanted to remember their warmth. Then he stepped back and walked toward the exit, where two guards in black uniforms already waited.

They took him. One guard took Rudolph's arm, the other his shoulder. They were not cruel - they were mechanical. They were doing their job. Like everyone else.

Tell my family, - Rudolph said as they led him past, - that I died quickly. Without pain. And that I loved them.

We'll tell them, - one of the clones replied.

Rudolph looked at them one last time. A smile flickered in his eyes - the last spark of life still in him.

Good luck to you, - he said. - Live.

He disappeared around the corner. The guards led him to the elevator that took him to the disposer. Elias stood and watched the doors close.

How old was he? - he asked.

Eight years, - Lynn replied. - He was a clone. Eight years - the standard term for cleaners.

Elias was silent. Eight years. He had worked for the corporation for ten years. He was older than Rudolph. More efficient. But he knew that one day he would be in his place. That one day the guards would come for him, and his colleagues would stand and watch him being led away.

I don't want to die in the disposer, - he said.

No one does, - Lynn replied. - But we'll all end up there.

They parted. Lynn walked toward her sector, and Elias remained standing in the corridor. He stared at the door behind which Rudolph had disappeared. He thought about how the clones had said goodbye to each other. How they had hugged him. How they told him he had been a good partner. He thought about how he had no such relationships. That he had no one to tell him: "You were a good partner." That he would die alone, as he had lived.

I don't want to die alone, - he whispered.

But his words were drowned in the hum of the ventilation. No one heard them. And no one answered.

He walked on. Toward his workplace. Toward his twelve clones. Toward his death, waiting at the end of this path.

Elias left the cafeteria and headed to the transport station. His steps were even, confident, like an asset who knows his path. But inside, everything trembled. The memory of Rudolph, of his farewell, of his smile - all of it was stuck in his head, refusing to let go.

"Eight years," he thought. "He lived eight years. He worked as a cleaner. He never knew real food. He never knew freedom. He just existed until his time ran out. And now he's in the disposer. Like trash."

He stopped at the station entrance. Above him hung a screen broadcasting news. This time it showed Marcus Vos's face - an old man with cold blue eyes and gray hair.

"Dear users," Marcus said. "We are building a future for everyone. Our corporation is your security, your well-being, your life. Follow protocols, and you will be protected. Break the rules - and you will become consumable material. The choice is yours."

Elias looked at his face and felt anger rising in his chest. For the first time in years, he felt real rage. Not at the system. Not at the protocols. At himself. For letting this happen. For not resisting. For being just like everyone else.

"I don't want to be an asset," he thought. "I don't want to be consumable material. I want to be human."

But he knew it was impossible. That the system would not let him escape. That he would die here, in New Tokyo-3, like everyone else.

He boarded the vacuum train. The carriage was almost empty - only a few passengers sat in corners, staring at their terminals. Elias sat in an empty seat and closed his eyes. The train glided forward, and he felt his body slip into a half-slumber.

His heart beat steadily. Vzh-vzh-vzh. This sound had become his lullaby. Every morning he heard it on his way to work. And every morning he felt his hatred for this sound grow stronger.

"I hate my heart," he thought. "I hate this body. I hate this life. I hate everything."

But he knew hatred would not save him. It would only make him weaker. It would only lower his PC. It would only bring him closer to death.

He opened his eyes and looked out the window. New Tokyo-3 flashed by - skyscrapers, holograms, drones. Everything was gray. Everything was dead. Everything was the same.

"Kane-39," he remembered. "Iris Vos. They escaped. They risked everything. They did what I cannot do."

He thought about what it would be like to be in their place. To meet someone worth risking everything for. To find freedom.

"But I won't find it," he told himself. "I'm too tired. Too weak. Just an asset."

The train stopped at the station. Elias stepped out onto the platform of "Central-3" station. The platform was huge - dozens of tracks, hundreds of passengers hurrying in different directions. All in gray jumpsuits, all with the same faces, all with the same expression of emptiness. No one looked at each other. No one talked. Everyone was busy with their own affairs - or pretending to be.

Elias headed toward the exit, but halfway there he slowed. Above the platform hung a giant screen - one of those broadcasting corporate news. He usually did not look at them. But today something made him look up.

On the screen, in bright blue tones, a headline flashed: "ATTENTION! WANTED: TRAITORS." And below - two photographs. A man and a woman. The man was tall, muscular, with short dark hair and harsh features. On his chest, just below the collarbone, was a tattoo - the number "39" and a heart with a woman's name inside. The woman was different - fragile, with bright red hair that stood out against the gray world. Her eyes were large and green, with that desperate determination that appears in people who have nothing left to lose.