The underground was never a place for the weak. In the deeper layers of the city, where the air grew heavy and silence became oppressive, living was a daily struggle. There were no promises of freedom, much less success. Everyone was trapped in an endless cycle of exhausting labor, unattainable dreams, and hopes that withered before they even bloomed.
The castes defined every individual's life in the underground, inherited at birth as an unavoidable, invisible burden. The only hope for ascension was the Selection Process, open only to those who had turned twenty in the past year. But that hope, distant and illusory, rarely materialized.
Divided into six castes, the underground world was sustained by predefined functions. The higher the caste, the better the living conditions and the greater the privileges.
At the top were the First and Second Castes, living closer to the surface—there resided the leaders and scientists, the keepers of knowledge. At the opposite extreme, in the darkest depths, the Sixth Caste labored in mining and energy generation, sustaining the system at the cost of their own lives.
In the middle of the system, the Fifth Caste, where Helena lived, played a vital yet invisible role. Farmers, fishers, and animal caretakers, they ensured the upper castes never faced hunger, though their own resources were scarce. Synthetic lights replaced the absent sun, and chemical fertilizers were the only hope of keeping crops alive in infertile soil.
Helena had grown accustomed to this reality. The underground was all she knew, and the daily grind of repetitive, exhausting work left no room for greater dreams. The rules were clear: either you adapted, or you succumbed to despair.
That day, like every other, the sound of the clock echoed through the corridors, marking the start of another day. The dim yellow lights flickered on, illuminating the gray hallways and the concrete walls that defined Helena's world.
She got up, slipped on her worn shoes, and threw on her faded jacket before casting a brief glance out the small window of her room. The view was always the same: a row of simple, identical concrete houses, colorless and lifeless, surrounded by the imposing walls that confined the Fifth Caste. Between the houses were stone paths and a few train tracks, which carried essential supplies that couldn't be produced locally, like chemicals, wood, and paper. Outside, workers were already moving, carrying tools or herding small flocks.
In the kitchen, her mother, Mira, stood holding a cup of coffee. The strong aroma filled the small space.
"You're going to trip over something walking like that," Mira warned with a half-smile, watching her daughter rush as she grabbed a slice of bread and shoved it into her mouth.
"Today's planting day. I can't be late!" Helena replied, already opening the door.
"Remember what I told you, Helena…" Mira began, but her words were swallowed by the sound of the door closing.
Helena stepped into the streets of the caste, her hands shoved into the pockets of her jacket. The dense air carried a metallic scent that never disappeared, a constant reminder of the underground's harsh conditions. She passed hurried neighbors, nodding absentmindedly at a few familiar faces.
She made her way to the cultivation fields,
which were nothing more than vast greenhouses lit by artificial lamps meant to mimic sunlight. The work there was grueling and often thankless. As she adjusted her tools to start the day, murmurs from a nearby group reached her ears.
"They've started talking about this year's Selection Process," said an older woman, her face marked by time. "Registration opens in two weeks."
Helena tried to ignore the conversation but couldn't suppress the spark of curiosity it ignited.
Like everyone in the Fifth Caste, she was familiar with the stories of those who had tried and failed. The few who succeeded were never seen again, as if the system erased their stories entirely.
"It's a waste of time," muttered a young man beside her. "They only pick those already at the top, the ones they can control."
Helena didn't respond but felt a growing restlessness within her. Though skeptical, the idea of attempting the Selection Process had never left her mind. She knew the odds were almost nonexistent, but she couldn't help asking herself: what if?
As the day wore on, talk of the Process seemed to linger in the air, a constant reminder of the few alternatives left to escape a predetermined fate.
Helena glanced at the artificial sky of the greenhouses and wondered what her mother would say if she knew she was considering signing up. After all, the whispers of the underground were never just murmurs… sometimes, they were calls to something greater.