The elevator doors were closing.
"Hold, please!" Sandra called, rushing toward them.
The people inside made no effort to stop the doors. She reached just as they sealed shut.
Gritting her teeth, she turned and hurried toward the stairs. Four flights in a power suit wasn't ideal, but she'd made it this far—she wasn't going to let something as trivial as a missed elevator stop her now.
By the time she arrived, the waiting area was already full. She recognized one of the men from the elevator. He avoided her gaze.
The door to the interview room swung open, and a young woman emerged, eyes red, shoulders hunched.
Sandra's stomach clenched. She smacked her cheeks lightly with both hands, took a deep breath, and straightened her posture.
"Next."
She stepped into the room.
A row of executives sat behind a sleek black desk, murmuring to each other. Sandra hated this part—the silent evaluation, the scrutiny. But there was no avoiding it.
Her file was already on their screens:
Name: Sandra Benson
Age: 27
Current Occupation: Librarian
SVI Score: 51
Not terrible. Not good, either.
A woman sat among the group, which made Sandra feel a little better. At least one of them might see her as more than a number.
Finally, the man in the center spoke. "Thank you. You'll hear from us."
Sandra nodded. She knew the look. Knew she wasn't getting a callback.
She kept her expression neutral as she walked out, but frustration burned in her chest.
"That stupid Stock Value Index," she muttered under her breath as she stepped into the elevator.
The lobby was busy as usual. A news broadcast played on the massive screen overhead.
"Another attack by Zeroday, the anti-SVI activist group, has left city infrastructure crippled—"
Sandra watched the footage of burning data centers, their logo painted in red across the wreckage.
On days like this, she agreed with Zeroday.
But it was safer to keep those thoughts to herself.
It started with the disasters. Earthquakes, floods, fires. Nations funneled everything into disaster relief and prevention.
Then came the Algorithm—a system designed to predict catastrophe before it happened.
But it saw more than just earthquakes.
It saw people. Their choices. Their potential.
It could calculate exactly how much value a person had in relation to society.
And so, the Human Stock Market was born.
A single number, your Stock Value Index (SVI), determined your worth. Your job prospects. Your healthcare. Your future.
Sandra's was 51—just barely above the threshold of insignificance.
And in this world, numbers meant everything.
As Sandra walked down the street, glowing numbers hovered above every passerby's head.
Everything else about a person could be private, but not this. Anyone with a data contact lens could see it. And in this city, almost everyone had one.
She saw the way people glanced at her 51 and dismissed her just as quickly. It was muscle memory at this point—barely a thought, just an instinct.
She had been going to interviews for years, but no one wanted to take a chance on a low-value investment.
And yet, to change her score, she needed a chance.
A paradox she had been trapped in for as long as she could remember.
That night, Sandra stepped through the door and immediately noticed the setup. Red rose petals formed a trail leading toward the living room. A rush of anticipation filled her chest. Finally.
She followed the path, her breath quickening—only for her heart to drop the moment she saw the glowing number above Kevin's head. 85 SVI.
Her smile faltered before she forced it back into place.
"I got the job," Kevin announced, his eyes bright with excitement. "85! Our lives are going to change." He pulled her into a hug.
Sandra wrapped her arms around him, but her hands felt heavy. She should be happy. I should be happy. An 85 SVI was incredible. It meant stability, prestige—everything they had worked toward. And yet, she couldn't tell if the sinking feeling in her chest was disappointment or resentment.
She had wanted a ring.
"Congratulations," she said, her voice light but brittle. "We should celebrate."
"Let's do dinner tomorrow. My treat, of course."
She nodded, already stepping toward the bedroom when his voice stopped her.
"I forgot to ask—how did your interview go?"
Sandra turned back, forcing another smile. Don't let him see.
"Good," she said, steady. "They told me to expect a callback."
"They'll call." Kevin beamed. "Our luck has turned."
Sandra nodded again, but as she turned away, she couldn't shake the hollow feeling in her chest.
The next day, Sandra walked through the university library, her footsteps muffled by the worn carpet. She had studied here once—earned a degree here. A degree that meant nothing now. Not with her SVI score.
And yet, all she could think about was Kevin. His 85 haunted her.
"Excuse me? Checking out this book."
A girl waved a textbook in Sandra's face, snapping her from her thoughts.
Sandra took the book and swiped the student's library card. As the girl walked away, Sandra's gaze flicked to the number hovering over her head: 90.
That's the type of number that takes you places.
Sandra had once been like that. Back in university, she and her friends had gone partying. On their way home, flashing blue lights filled the rearview mirror. A DUI. A permanent stain.
Her 60 had slipped to 59. Then lower. Then lower.
Now, she couldn't risk anything that might damage her score further. So she settled. A quiet, stable job as a librarian.
That night, she got dressed and met Kevin in the living room. He smiled, opening the passenger door for her when they reached the car.
The restaurant wasn't one of their usual spots—it was better. A place for people who belonged to a different tier of society. He opened the door for her, and as she stepped out, the weight of attention fell on her.
Whispers. Stares.
She ignored them. This is good, she told herself. Let them look.
Inside, Kevin stiffened. She saw it in the way his fingers tightened around the menu, how his shoulders hunched as the murmurs grew.
A man approached their table.
"Hey, Kevin, it's me from work."
Sandra barely heard the words. She was watching Kevin. The way his jaw tensed. The way he avoided looking at her.
"Are you embarrassed to be seen with me?" she asked, voice low.
"No, of course not," Kevin said too quickly.
But she already knew.
Sandra pushed back her chair. "I can't do this."
Kevin let out a breath. "You can't do this? I can't do this." He stood, shaking his head. "I guess it's over."
And just like that, he walked out.
Sandra blinked. What?
Then she turned—and saw a sea of screens. Phones. Recording.
A terrible feeling twisted in her stomach. Her gaze snapped to her SVI score just in time to watch it drop.
One point.
Another.
Another.
It kept falling.
And with every digit lost, she felt herself breaking.