The walk back to District 4 was a descent into a freezer.

  Violet clutched a small brown paper bag against her chest, the warmth of the two loaves of bread and three tubes of Grade-C synth-paste acting as a meager battery against the biting wind. The snow was falling heavier now, the gray flakes sticking to her violet hair like tiny, frozen eggs. Her boots crunched over the icy slush, a lonely, rhythmic sound that reminded her she was walking through a city of millions and yet was entirely unheard.

  As she passed the mouth of a transit tunnel—one of the few places where the overhead heating coils actually worked—the air grew momentarily humid. There, leaning against the soot-stained ceramic tiles of the tunnel wall, were two people.

  They were young, perhaps her age. They wore the rough, stained jumpsuits of the sanitation workers, but they had pulled the collars down, shedding the heavy protective gear of the Empire to expose the vulnerability of skin.

  They were kissing.

  Violet stopped.

  The boy had his hands buried in the girl's hair, his fingers tangling in the messy strands with a desperate, hungry grip. The girl's eyes were squeezed shut so tightly her lashes trembled. Their mouths were pressed together in a way that looked almost violent, yet profoundly soft. It wasn't just a meeting of lips; it was a frantic exchange of breath, a shared heat in a world that was a Icy hell. She watched the way their heads tilted, the way the boy's thumb traced the line of the girl's jaw, a touch so tender it felt like a secret language.

  She wondered what it felt like. Was it as warm as the bread in her arms? Did the air taste different when it was filtered through someone else's lungs? She imagined a hand on her cheek, a voice whispering her name—her real name—into the crook of her neck.

  Almost unconsciously, Violet raised her free hand. Her fingertips, numb and red from the cold, touched her own bottom lip. She traced the curve of it, trying to imagine the pressure of another person's mouth against hers.

  The heat hit her face instantly. A fierce, stinging blush flooded her cheeks, turning her skin a dark, embarrassed crimson. She felt a surge of shame so powerful she nearly dropped her groceries. What am I doing? She spun on her heel and hurried away, her heart hammering a frantic, uneven beat against her ribs. She felt small. She felt foolish. She felt like a starving bird watching a feast through a window.

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  Returning home, the apartment was exactly as she had left it—congested, dim, and smelling of the damp rot that lived behind the baseboards. Back in the silent Isolation chamber of her life, she felt lonely. It was just Violet and the symphony of her own mind.

  It was these moments of silence, Violet hated the most, having no one to talk to, having no one to lie beside and tell her, that 'it'd be okay' was.....a little painful. But it was fine; soon enough, she would move from the filth of this place to a higher district. As soon as she enrolled in a high-paying and respectful service, Violet would leave this hellhole and be free, at least for a moment. She would have a whole house to herself, she would earn enough to buy a enitre months bread in a single day. And not to mention the cozy heaters that would provide her body warmth.

  Violet sat on the edge of the bed and reached beneath the floorboard, pulling out the crimson volume. The Red Eye. Surprisingly, she had never read it before. Despite being with her for almost eight years, she hadn't touched the book once. It was because, for the past eight years, she had been under heavy surveillance due to being in the academy. Another reason was the weird nature of the book.

  The Book was different from everything and anything she had encountered in her life. It felt a little creepy. Her father was executed because he had a stash of various books on philosophy, films of the old world, and media expressing individualism. He used to broadcast it from abandoned radio towers scattered across the countryside after the First War. The Empire burned the books, scraped the tapes and films, and even killed him, but they didn't recover this book. The book almost felt invisible to the world, as if it were a secret passed down to Dad and me.

  After all, it did belong to my mother. Dad had told me everything about his life, his experiences, but strangely, he didn't say much about my mother. The only piece of information he told me was that her family used to own a bookstore before the war, which is why he became interested in books, and this was the book my mom had given him as a gift after they married.

  Because of that, Violet was extremely curious about the book, but was also scared due to its nature.

  The book felt heavy tonight. It felt alive. The silk of the cover seemed to cling to her skin like wet hair. She opened it to the middle, her eyes scanning the jagged, handwritten scripts that seemed to shift and crawl across the parchment. The curiosity overwhelmed her, and she opened the first page. Opening it, a strange set of words surprised her.

  The handwriting was hurried, almost desperate, acting as a sign of warning.

  The strange words read: Be careful what you wish for

  It felt like another cover of Waring Signs to Violet. She didn't think much of it at the time and started reading.