Red. Sticky. Trash. That's all blood was to Solar. In Aethelgard, that mess in your veins wasn't life—it was 'Metabolic-Fuel'. A heavy asset. Like sludge in a seized engine. Every single drop circling through your thin, collapsing pipes was 'System-Proprietary-Material'. A debt. You started paying the second you crawled out into the world. Solar didn't give a damn about a heart or a soul. He just wanted the flow-rate. He wanted to squeeze the iron out of the pump.
Solar sat in the "Extraction-Lounge". Cold. The room had a nasty, thick stink. Old pennies and too much industrial bleach. CLINK. SLOSH. Solar swirled a glass of dark, warm wine. He watched the stain on the glass. Thick. Slow. Just like the samples being sucked out of the workers through yellowing, plastic tubes in the next room.
"Elias. Look at the pressure in Sector 4," Solar said. His voice was flat. Like a wet rag hitting a cold floor. He didn't even look up. "The flow is garbage. Sluggish. Are they hoarding their own plasma again? Trying to hide their warmth from the Board's meters?"
Elias leaned against the steel doorframe. His face was the colour of a week-old corpse. Greasy fingers dug into a sweat-stained shirt, knuckles white and shaking. No breath. Just short, wet whistles coming from a throat full of grit. It sounded like a rusted hinge. GASP. WHEEZE. "The... the crews are dry, Solar. Squeezed. You're taking a pint for every housing renewal. They're paper-dolls, man. One cold breeze and they'll snap. You can't run a factory if the brains aren't wet enough to think."
Solar slammed his glass down. THUD. "Paper-dolls don't pay interest. If they're weak, they're 'Biological-Over-Spenders'. This isn't a charity. It's a collection-point. Add a 'Viscosity-Surcharge' of 88% to anyone with thin, watery blood. They want a pulse? They pay for the 'Rhythmic-Maintenance-Fee'. It's a subscription, Elias. Pay the bill, keep the heart. Stop paying, the pump stops. Simple math."
Centrifuges in the back started an angry growl. GRIND. WHIRRR. Thousands of glass tubes filled with crimson life-force. Tagged. Sorted. Stacked like bars of gold in a vault.
A shadow moved near the rusty ceiling-fans. The Shadow. Silver mask covered in grime and black oil. Pure hate looking down at the bloody machinery. "Harvesting them like cattle, Solar! The heart isn't a damn ATM for your Ledger!"
Solar didn't look up. He wiped a red drop of wine from his lip. White silk handkerchief. DAB. DAB. "An ATM? No, ghost. That's primitive. I'm a 'Metabolic Auditor'. The Board provided the air, the synthetic slop, the life-support. The blood is 'Collateral'. It's 'Heartbeat-as-a-Service'. They don't like the contract? They can opt for 'System-Shutdown'. Free market, isn't it?"
Floor sensors caught a spike. A mechanical shriek. Not a beep. A raw scream of metal on metal. SCREECH. ALARM.
"The audit is moving into the marrow, ghost!" Solar shouted over the fans. Eyes cold. Like frozen grease. "Everything is an asset! Every heartbeat is a transaction! I'll tax the pulse! I'll audit the vein! I'll put a price on the last drop of warmth before the body turns into an unpaid debt!"
Solar stood up. Walked toward the iron exit. Boots clicked. Stuck to the blood-stained floor. A wet, sucking sound. CLICK. SQUELCH. No horror. No guilt. Just math.
"Elias!" Solar barked.
"Y-yes... sir?"
"The 'Drained' ones. Don't throw them out yet. Sell them 'Iron-Boost-Credits' at a 400% markup. They want to stand? They pay the 'Circulatory-Recovery-Tax'. The body is a machine, Elias. And I own the oil."
Solar walked out. Freezing night. He didn't look back. The interest never sleeps. The Ledger was hungry. Solar was the only one who knew how to feed it.