The rain poured heavily, slicking the asphalt with neon reflections. “Day 7: Oxygen Levels Critical” blinked on a billboard above the checkpoint, its letters flickering through the static. Logan tugged his mask tighter, the filter barely clinging to its last cycle. Ahead, the border wall gleamed—thirty feet of polished steel, its surface blackened with plasma scorch marks. A woman stood at the gate, cradling a child wrapped in a foil survival blanket. The guard’s rifle was steady, unshaken by her trembling voice. “Please… just one tank.” Without a word, he scanned her wrist. The display read: “No Credits. No Air.”