Day 60 – Hour 015 Echoes of Usefulness
Day 60 – Hour 015Echoes of Usefulness
Nemi closed the ledger softly and leaned back against the wall. The paper pile lay around him like discarded skin. He'd played their game three times now. And if the score was to be believed, he'd finally done well. Better than most, maybe.
But what did they value? Speed. Conviction. Control over resources. He'd been judged not for what he did — but how efficiently and decisively he did it.
Even that answer... Only if you are useful — it didn't answer anything. Not really. Just made clear that this wasn't a group interested in his heart or dreams. The Club wasn't curious about who Nemi was. Only what he could do.
He wondered if there had been a better question.
He wondered if there would ever be another chance to ask one.
His stomach growled. He hadn't eaten all day. Still, it took him a few minutes to convince himself to get up. He grabbed a crumpled hoodie from the floor, stuffed the ledger into the hidden side pocket stitched by hand, and opened the door to step outside.
There was a small object on the ground.
Wrapped in a waxy black envelope. No name. No seal. Just sitting there, perfectly centered before his door.
Day 60 – Hour 016
Behind the Doors We Don't See
Nemi stared down at the object like it was ticking. It wasn't. It just sat there, still and quiet, defying the chaos of the slums. He bent slowly and picked it up. The paper was stiff but not heavy. Inside was a single black card with embossed gold lettering.
"Lifetime Member – Facility 8"Access granted: 24/7. Location enclosed. Includes training, meals, and technology support.
There was no additional note. Just the address scribbled faintly on the back: a warehouse near the outer sector of the slums — a place he knew by name only because people didn't speak about it openly.
He blinked and re-read it.
"Facility 8."
It sounded like a government office. Or something worse.
The building itself was one of those concrete relics from an older, forgotten industry. No sign outside. No lights in the windows. But when Nemi arrived, full from a cheap wrap and warm water, two men in simple dark uniforms stood at the front, stone-faced and silent.
He pulled out the card. One of them scanned it without a word. The door buzzed open.
And suddenly, the inside of the warehouse looked like another world.
Floors polished. Machines whirring quietly. A receptionist in a glass box nodded him forward. There was a gym, yes — but also tables set for meals, a supply of fresh clothing stacked neatly in the side cubbies, and a row of clean workstations with functioning printers, computers, and outlets.
A private facility.
A hidden space in plain sight.
No one would know what it was unless they had permission.
As Nemi wandered slowly past the workout benches and the central mats, someone approached and handed him a printed welcome guide. It included:
Weekly physical assessments
A nutrition plan
Open access to one-on-one coaching
Secure internet access
Private file printing and documentation services
All paid for. No charge. No bills.
His name was already logged in the system.
He stayed for only a few minutes. Just long enough to walk the perimeter once, to confirm it wasn't a hallucination.
Then he stepped out. Back into the slum's dusty air, the card gripped tightly in his hand.
Back at home, he placed the card beside his ledger and stared at it.
The Club's voice still echoed in the back of his head.
Only if you are useful.
It wasn't comfort.
It wasn't threat.
It was just a statement.
He had a gym now. A facility. A place to grow stronger. To survive whatever came next.
But that didn't make him safe.
It just meant he was still useful.
And for now, that was enough.