The Sorting

Most people in the First District treated Selection Day like a holiday.

I treated it like a funeral.

The announcement drones started screaming before sunrise, their distorted, electronic voices echoing through the narrow streets outside my apartment.

"All citizens who have reached maturity are to report for fertility testing immediately."

I pulled the thin blanket tighter over my head, wishing I could somehow make the day disappear. But it didn't. Nothing ever disappeared in this city. Hunger stayed. Misery stayed. The suffocating smell of smoke and dirty water stayed.

But people didn't.

"Drake! Hurry up and come down for breakfast! You're going to be late for the selection!" my mother shouted from downstairs.

I groaned, forcing myself up from the worn mattress. Who told her I even care about selection day? I muttered to myself, a heavy sadness settling over my chest.

The moment I stepped out of bed, a blast of cold air hit my skin. Damn it. The heater must have died again.

I rubbed a hand over my face before walking toward the cracked mirror hanging beside my bedroom door. The glass was split right down the middle, cutting my reflection in two. Staring back at me was dark hair, tired eyes, and a face far too old for a nineteen years old boy.

My mother always said I looked exactly like my father. I never knew if that was meant to be a compliment or a curse.

Leaving my room, the bitter scent of burnt toast drifted up from the kitchen. I knew breakfast was going to be depressing, I thought.

The apartment groaned beneath my feet as I navigated the narrow hallway. Inside the peeling walls, rusty pipes rattled in a quiet, metallic rhythm. Somewhere outside, a baby was crying loud enough to wake the whole community.

My mom was standing by the stove when I walked in, and my mood instantly worsened.

She was dressed up. Not fully, but enough that a thick layer of makeup hid how exhausted she truly was. A heavy cloud of cheap perfume fought to mask the stagnant scent of our apartment.

"You're finally awake," she said, her eyes never leaving her task. "Sit down before the food gets cold."

I almost laughed because the food was cold before it even touched the plate.

I dropped into the chair anyway. Burnt toast. Powdered eggs. Half a glass of purified water if I was lucky. At least it was food.

Mom turned toward me, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. "Is that what you're wearing?"

I looked down at my faded black shirt. "It's clean."

"Drake, why don't you seem to care about your future at all?"

"Yeah," I said dryly. "That's the problem, Mom. There is no future in a world that looks like a funeral, even if you all want to call it a celebration."

She let out a sharp sigh, her face hardening with irritation.

"Drake—"

"No, seriously. Everybody acts like this is some kind of blessing." I ripped a piece of the burnt toast off, harder than necessary. "You either test fertile and spend the rest of your life breeding lab rats for the government, or you test infertile and get dragged off to disappear on the warfront."

Her jaw tightened instantly. "Keep your voice down, Drake."

"Why? Everybody already knows, Mom. There is nothing left to hide here."

Another siren wailed out on the streets. My mom pointedly ignored me, suddenly becoming deeply interested in smoothing out the sleeve of her dress. I stared at her, the reality sinking in. This dress isn't for Selection Day. It's for whoever is knocking on our door later tonight.

Something ugly and twisted clawed at my chest.

"You know," I muttered quietly, the bitterness leaking into my tone. "Sometimes I understand why Dad left."

The second the words left my mouth, a pang of regret hit me.

Mom froze. Then, slowly, she turned her head to look at me. "What did you say?"

But the anger inside me was a wildfire now. It was too hot to stop.

"I said maybe he just got tired of this place." I swallowed harshly, staring right into her eyes. "Tired of pretending survival means selling pieces of yourself every single night."

Puck.

A hot, blinding slap landed squarely across my cheek. My head snapped back with the force of it.

Even the rattling pipes inside the walls seemed to go dead silent.

"How dare you speak to me in that manner!" she gasped, her voice trembling, looking completely horrified by her own actions.

"Mom!" I shouted, a hand flying to my stinging face.

Her hand slowly dropped back to her side. In my entire nineteen years of life, she had never laid a finger on me.

"Drake…" she whispered, taking a step forward.

But I slammed my hands on the table and pushed my chair back before she could get any closer. The hurt throbbing in my chest felt a thousand times worse than the sting on my cheek. Part of me hated her for it, but a darker, uglier part of me hated myself because I understood exactly why she did the things she did to keep us alive.

"You don't get it," she said softly, her eyes welling with tears.

I let out a bitter, humorless laugh. "No. I get it perfectly."

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Three sharp, heavy thuds suddenly echoed through the apartment door. My mom went completely rigid. So did I. Neither of us said a word, because we both knew exactly who was standing on the other side.

I grabbed my jacket from the back of the chair.

"Drake, wait." Her voice sounded incredibly small this time.

I paused near the threshold, but I refused to turn around.

"If your results come out fertile…" She hesitated, her breath shaking. "Don't let this world turn you into your father."

My chest tightened into a suffocating vice. There it was again. My father was always brought up like a ghost, but she never actually explained the haunting.

"What happened to him?" I asked quietly.

She didn't answer. She never did.

I clenched my jaw, ripping the apartment door open and stepping out into the hall before she could see how much that silence still tore me apart.

The moment I hit the street, the icy morning air slammed into me like a brick.

The avenues were already a sea of bodies. Boys of my age marched toward the Selection Centre in massive, silent crowds while surveillance drones hovered overhead, bleeding artificial light as they flashed government slogans across giant screens.

YOUR GENES ARE YOUR FUTURE.

Women stood on the doorsteps, watching the procession with pale faces, while soldiers lined the sidewalks, gripping their rifles like they expected a riot to detonate at any second. A heavy military transport truck rolled past me slowly. The metal cages welded to the back were completely empty.

For now.

My stomach twisted into a violent knot.

Halfway down the block, a desperate scream suddenly erupted near one of the processing gates. The crowd immediately ground to a halt.

A mother had collapsed onto the cold pavement, sobbing hysterically as three officers dragged a teenage boy out through the station doors. He looked terrified. He couldn't have been older than seventeen.

"There has to be a mistake!" his mother shrieked, clawing at the soldiers' boots. "Please! He's just a boy!"

Nobody moved. Nobody helped. We all just watched.

One of the guards turned sharply, slamming the heavy butt of his rifle directly into the boy's stomach. The air left the kid in a violent, choking gasp as he collapsed.

And just like that, the entire street went dead silent.

I stood frozen, watching the heavy steel doors of the transport truck slam shut behind the boy.

That was the exact moment the truth finally hit me.

Selection Day wasn't a ceremony. It was a sorting.

A single day designed to decide who got to live like a human being, and who got thrown directly into the trash.