It was too beautiful a day in Urizen.

Which meant something was wrong.

Down in District Grime-9, sunlight knifed between the highrises, cutting strange holy shapes across the oil-slicked pavement. Even the shanty scaffolders buzzed with it — kids pointing at sunbeams like they’d found God.

Tanner Vrex slouched behind the wheel of his dented gravel-runner, high on cheap synth and radio static, sweating into a crusty vest. He hadn’t seen the sun in months. Maybe years. He wasn’t counting.

The warmth made him reckless.

He peeled off his jacket. Rolled up his sleeves. Let the UV kiss his skin like it still loved him.

Bad idea.

Within minutes, a black Enforcer Unit slid into view. Silent. Sudden. Like a spider with sirens. Its gull-doors hissed open and two corporate regulators emerged, glinting obsidian, faces hidden behind anti-flash helmets that mirrored the sun back like it was radioactive.

Vrex groaned. “Ahhh, frag. Must’ve pinged my plates again. Or maybe it’s the cooler.” He sniffed. “Could be the corpse. Forgot about the corpse.”

The taller Enforcer stomped up to the vehicle. No talk. Just a tap on the window. Mechanical fingers.

Vrex lowered it halfway. “Problem, officer?”

“Out of the vehicle.”

He blinked. “Y-you wanna search it or—”

The Enforcer reached in, undid the door lock manually, and yanked Vrex out with one brutal motion.

“Jesus! I’m cooperating, okay! I didn’t even snort today!”

No answer. Just the whirr of a wrist compartment opening. The Enforcer pulled out a slender strip of smartfilm — thin as a prayer slip — and slapped it against Vrex’s forearm.

It glowed.

Then turned orange.

The Enforcer grunted. The second one nodded.

“Suspect has exceeded solar allotment. Over fifteen minutes’ unpermitted exposure. Category 3 violation.”

Vrex blinked. “Wait, wait, what? That’s a… what is that, a sun test strip?”

“Article 451-C. Solar Equity and Fairness Act. You’ve been tanning without clearance.”

Vrex stared at them like they’d just accused him of murdering the moon.

“I was standing here! Just… breathing air!”

The second Enforcer stepped forward. “Air consumption taxes are under review. For now, we’re only processing solar theft.”

They forced him into the back of the unit. The doors shut with a hiss that felt like permanent night.

They took him to The Solarium.

It used to be a tanning resort for the megacorp elite. Now it was a detention center — all UV lamps and white noise and walls that hummed like migraines. The irony was industrial.

The holding cells were Plexiglass coffins, each one floodlit with artificial sun. Prisoners inside thrashed, blistered, screamed — their skin peeling under mandated exposure. A sign overhead blinked:

“EXCESSIVE SUNSHINE IS A CRIME. PENANCE IS ABSORPTION.”

The guards wore black visors to block the light. Vrex was dumped into one of the cells. He tried to cover his eyes. The walls pulsed with brightness.

“Y-you’re cooking people in here!” he shouted.

“Correct,” came the guard’s bored reply. “Correctional Ultraviolet Therapy. You stole light from the elite. Now you give it back. With interest.”

One inmate was screaming about clouds, begging to see clouds. Another just laughed until he passed out.

Vrex pressed his face to the glass. Outside the cell, an LED advertisement cycled:

“Want more sunshine? Upgrade to Platinum Skin Tier.”

He slumped to the floor, skin sizzling.

The sun used to rise for everyone.

Now, you needed a subscription.

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