There’s something about the sea at dawn.

  Something real.

  No noise.

  No people.

  No mockery.

  Just the steady rhythm of the waves, rising and falling like a breath.

  If I could breathe underwater, I think I’d stay down there forever.

  Far from everything.

  Weightless.

  But I can’t.

  And that’s the problem.

  The alarm screamed right next to my head—a shrill, busted wail from another century.

  I cracked an eye open. 5:45. The screen was cracked, but I knew the numbers by heart.

  I shut it off and sat up slowly, letting the cold air bite into my skin.

  Our floating house creaked like always, rocked gently by the western winds.

  The floor was patched metal. Every corner fixed with tape or rust.

  Blankets hung on the walls to keep the spray out.

  We lived on the edge of Sector 7—a scrap raft held together by plastic, solar panels, and desperate hope.

  It wasn’t pretty, but it floated.

  That was what mattered.

  I got ready in silence. Toothbrush in one hand, dive vest in the other.

  The straps were fraying again. I made a mental note to stitch them back—assuming I didn’t fail today’s test.

  My little sister was still asleep, curled up in her hammock.

  I couldn’t help but smile. At least she was resting easy.

  “Sleep a little more,” I whispered.

  I crossed the room into what we called our kitchen.

  One shelf. One pot. A round window with pale light leaking through.

  Mom was already up, tying her hair in a quick motion that almost hid the wince on her face.

  “You alright?” I asked.

  She didn’t turn.

  “Don’t start. I’m fine.”

  She wasn’t. I knew it.

  She knew I knew.

  But we had a deal—don’t talk about things when breakfast is just lukewarm rice and silence.

  “Don’t forget the ration card,” she said, nodding toward the table.

  I grabbed it. An old, wrinkled card with a half-faded printed code—our ticket to one meal.

  No card, no food. Simple as that.

  “Got it,” I said, with a grin I didn’t really feel.

  And I stepped outside.

  Into the city of rust and waves.

  Sector 7 always smelled like salt, burnt plastic, and old fuel.

  A hundred floating homes clung to one another like shipwrecked bottles.

  The walkways groaned. The cables trembled overhead.

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  Barefoot kids ran between stalls.

  Old men smoked beside buckets of fish.

  A woman carrying six solar panels on her back screamed at a malfunctioning drone.

  It was loud. Messy.

  But alive.

  Almost beautiful.

  And above it all… another world floated.

  Suspended in the sky, the rich lived on pristine platforms—glass, steel, clean lights.

  They said the wind smelled sweet up there.

  That water fell from the sky.

  That nobody drowned.

  Must be nice.

  I reached the dive platform.

  A group of divers was already lounging around—slim, confident, wearing the latest suits.

  I felt their eyes on me before they even spoke.

  “Yo, Kai! Still stuck in E-rank? Did you bring your floaties this time?”

  I laughed with them.

  That’s the trick.

  You laugh first.

  It hurts less that way.

  The instructor didn’t laugh.

  He just handed me the stopwatch.

  “Last chance today. Two minutes or you’re on dock cleanup for a month.”

  I nodded. No excuses. No words.

  I stepped forward.

  A deep breath.

  Hold.

  Go.

  Tick. Tick. Tick.

  Seconds dropped like lead into my lungs.

  My chest tightened.

  My temples throbbed.

  Sweat rolled into my eyes.

  Fifty-seven.

  Fifty-eight.

  Fifty-nine—

  I broke.

  A gasp tore out of me.

  I collapsed to my knees, throat burning, vision spinning.

  Beep.

  “Still E-rank,” the instructor said. “Again.”

  I walked home with a mouth full of rust.

  Mom didn’t say anything.

  She handed me a bowl and went back to stirring the pot.

  “You should rest,” I said quietly.

  “And you should pass,” she answered, tired smile tugging at her lips.

  I sat down.

  My sister was waking up, hair a mess.

  “So?” she asked. “Did you break your record?”

  “I broke something. No idea what.”

  She laughed.

  I did too.

  It wasn’t much.

  But it was better than nothing.

  Above us, on the highest shelf, Dad’s old diving helmet stared back.

  The glass was cracked.

  Algae still clung to the inside.

  He went down four years ago.

  Never came back.

  Some say he drowned.

  Dove too deep.

  Got greedy.

  I don’t believe that.

  Sometimes, I think I dive just to prove them wrong.

  That night, I went back to the platform.

  But this time…

  I kept walking.

  Out past the lights.

  Past the safety line.

  Out where the sea swallowed everything.

  There’s a forbidden zone out there.

  No lights.

  No buoys.

  No rescue drones.

  Just rusted signs and whispered rumors.

  They say no one comes back.

  I took a deep breath—

  And I dove anyway