“Elections are coming soon!” the advertisement roared. More precisely, elections would be held in six years, but preparations were already underway. Philip clumsily tried to mute the sound and clear the screen.

He’d had classes on democracy back in high school. It had been brief, he remembered—more a formality than a lesson. Still, despite the trimmed curriculum, their teacher had told them that in democracies, elections happened often. Philip, now thirty, couldn’t recall a single one ever taking place. And yet, they lived in a democracy. That’s what they said on the Contra-news.

Boiled milk overflowed, filling the apartment with the smell of burnt residue. He opened the window. The air outside was even worse. He looked into the distance—as if an answer might arrive with the wind. Disappointed in himself, he closed the window, cleaned up the mess, and went out.

His friend was waiting at the entrance of the building to go to work. Thomas had never gone to school. None were mandatory—not primary, not secondary. His parents believed school was a waste of time, that there was nothing useful to learn there anyway. For work, it was enough to know how to do something—and to do it well. So, they said, the earlier you start, the better.

“Where have you been?”
“My microwave broke. I was heating food on some rusty old burner.”
“They’ll dock our points if we’re late. You know the second shift…”
“I know! You’re annoying!” Philip cut him off and waved his hand.

The electrobus hummed up. They stepped over the legs of a man sleeping at the stop and boarded. The second shift worked without upper management. Responsibility was transferred to the selected workers. Philip and Thomas were among them. No privileges came with that—only increased repression and punishment if things went wrong. Hoping for promotion was pointless. Impossible. For that, one needed higher education—which could only be obtained abroad.

“Still thinking about her?”

Philip said nothing.

“Come on. She was nobody. Why does it bother you so much?”

He remained silent. She’d died three years ago. During the second shift. It hadn’t been her fault. The report for the Contra-service had to name someone guilty—either a worker or one of the selected. A penalty for the selected would mean losing so many points that by the end of the month there’d be neither electricity nor water. Thomas supported him. They wrote that the deceased worker had made an error. The Contra-service praised them. The system was flawless.

From that day, he withdrew into himself. Spoke rarely. Worked diligently and avoided conversations during breaks. People thought him moody, but respected his diligence. It didn’t matter. He had his own world—a world of dread.

Thomas didn’t bother him much. They lived in the same block, worked in the same sector, and understood each other with minimal words. He respected Philip’s silence, though he saw conscience as a nagging fly that—out of all people—insists on landing on your forehead. The sooner you squash it, the sooner you’ll find peace. Thomas believed in his two hands and in avoiding all trouble.

The freshly paved road made the ride unusually smooth. The bus glided forward. People loved new asphalt—its smell, its dark color with sharply white lines, its flawless surface. Every meter more of new asphalt allowed one more soul to experience true joy. That’s why the government, for the good of its citizens, repaved every road every six months.

That day, Philip was cleaning the plant and taking out waste from the hall. At the landfill, during unloading, he noticed some documents—which was unusual. Someone from management had likely forgotten to destroy them in haste. He looked around, thinking it might be a setup. Picked up the folder and brushed off the dust. Opened it to read.

Management had to reduce the number of employees due to lack of funds. Since the official stance of the Contra-service was that there were no layoffs, nor unemployment in the state, Management planned to accuse a group of workers of sabotage in a fabricated process. Some would face the death penalty, others life imprisonment. Thus the problem would be conveniently resolved—both for Management and for the Contra-service.

Philip trembled and closed the folder. Put it in his loader and headed back.

“Burn those papers! Are you crazy to keep them?”
“Thomas, do you even realize what they’re planning to do?”
“Sure I do, man, but it’s got nothing to do with us. There’ll always be someone sacrificed for the ones above. You just have to make it to the end in one piece.”
“The end? What end? What are you talking about? There’s no end here—except us!”

He paced the room in circles. Reporting to the Contra-service made no sense—they financed Management. Sending it to the Contra-news wouldn’t help—they wouldn’t publish it. Before long, they’d arrest him. How could he help those poor souls? He couldn’t bear another act of hiding. Thomas sat, head in hands, dragging his fingers through his hair.

“You’re overreacting, Philip. You know you can’t change anything. They’ve got everything; you’ve got nothing.”
“People have to know what’s happening! Who knows how many times this has happened—and we never knew!”

He grabbed a pen and began scribbling frantically on the backs of those papers. Gathered the sheets and ran out of the apartment. Thomas ran down after him, but Philip went up—to the roof. From the highest point, he threw the papers. The wind obeyed him, scattering them across balconies and windows, across sidewalks and the black asphalt.

And the Contra-service heard him too. And reacted swiftly.

Though his eyes would never again see the light of day, warmth of freedom pulsed through his veins. He felt closeness with all those who once were, and with those who would be no more. A smile appeared on his face—for the first time in his life.