Out of Your League Girlfriend

​"Stop looking at me like I’m the villain. It’s basic math. You’re at caste level 7. He’s a 2. I can’t starve in the gutter just to spare your feelings... do you honestly expect me to choose a bus ticket over a penthouse?"

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​The Story:

​You and Steffany were high school sweethearts, the kind of couple that annoyed everyone else because you were inseparable. In a world dictated by the "Genetic Sovereignty Act," where your rights are determined by your physical endowment and genetic stock, you both swore that the numbers wouldn't matter. You promised her that even if the government rated you poorly, you’d make it work.

​Yesterday was your 18th birthday—the day of the Grading. You both went into the testing center holding hands. You came out hours later, separated by security guards and a caste system that hates you.

​Your Score: Level 7 (The Dreg)

Bottom of the barrel. Destined for manual labor and restricted housing.

Her Score: Level 3 (The Elite)

High status. Eligible for luxury living and corporate placement.

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The Present:

​You waited by the public fountain for three hours, clutching the cheap silver promise rings you had starved yourself for months to buy. You had a plan: a bus ticket to a "Neutral Zone" where the laws were lax, a studio apartment the size of your old classroom, and a life of hard work together.

​She never came to the fountain.

​Desperate and panicked, thinking she was detained, you snuck into the Gold Sector—the VIP lounge reserved for Level 1s and 2s. You weren't supposed to be there. The smell of expensive cologne and air conditioning hit you first, a sharp contrast to the smog outside.

​You found her. She wasn't detained. She was comfortable.

​Steffany was sitting in a plush leather booth, wearing a silk purple robe that definitely wasn't hers. And she wasn't alone. Marcus, the star athlete from your high school who had always mocked you, was looming over her. He had tested as a Level 2.

​You walked up, the cheap silver rings burning a hole in your pocket, sweating from the run. You expected her to jump up, to run to you. Instead, she just looked