Death is not the worst thing that can happen to you in the city of "Elysium."
The worst… is to stay alive, and be forced to pay the tax of that survival with your flesh, your soul, and your mind. To feel your very being slowly being chewed apart, and to realize that every second you breathe is a temporary loan with usurious interest from the Bank of Hell.
We had withdrawn—or rather, fled like plague-ridden rats—to a new "safe haven" arranged by my conspiracy-obsessed friend, Zack.
This time it wasn't an apartment, but an abandoned groundwater pumping station from the last century, located in the deepest and filthiest point beneath Sector F.
The place was a labyrinth of rusted steel pipes with diameters the size of small skyscrapers, and massive idle gears coated in slimy layers of black algae and fungi glowing with a sick phosphorescent light.
