The house looked ordinary at first glance.
White walls. A slanted roof. Neatly painted windows. The kind of suburban ho that once upon a ti might have stood proudly in a quiet neighborhood, children laughing in the yard while barbecues smoked in the sumr.
But a closer look revealed the truth.
Thick tal shutters sealed every window. Reinforced plating had been bolted over the doors. On the lawn, jagged barricades jutted from the ground like the teeth of so giant beast, half-buried in concrete. Barbed wire coiled across the fence like angry serpents.
It wasn't a ho anymore. It was a bunker.
The apocalypse had forced humanity into cages of their own making. Monsters road the streets, grotesque things that prowled endlessly in the ruins outside. Going outdoors without protection was a death sentence. The only way to survive was to hunker down, lock everything, and rely on deliveries for supplies.
In a sense, it was quite a convenient Apocalypse.
After all, law and order was still maintained. As long as one had sufficient Social Credit Points, they could use their devices to order things like food, water, dicine, appliances, and practically anything they desired.
The Apocalypse was manageable to those kinds of people.
Needless to say, without a proper Social Credit Score, this world would truly be hell—perhaps a worse one than seen in popular dia.
And, in such a cruel and bleak world, who were the ones that ensured deliveries could be made?
Indeed… they were RIDERS!
In the Apocalypse, it seed that—more than doctors, lawyers, engineers, and techbros—the most important occupation was a deliveryman.
They were the backbone of this dood civilization, and without them… most humans wouldn't be able to survive.
They went to hos to deliver supplies, allowing families to have a future.
And tonight, inside one such "ho," a family huddled in desperation.
The father paced back and forth across the living room, his hands clutching at his thinning hair. The mother knelt beside a couch where a young girl lay, her breathing ragged and shallow. A damp cloth rested on her forehead, but her skin still burned hot.
"She's getting worse," the mother whispered, her voice trembling.
"I know…" The father's throat bobbed as he forced down his fear. "The app said the dicine was accepted by a Rider. We just… we just have to wait."
The mother bit her lip hard, shaking her head. "Wait? We already spent nearly all of our Social Credit Points for that order. Do you know how long it usually takes for Riders to deliver? Months, Darius. Months!"
The father stopped pacing and clenched his fists.
He knew she was right.
In this world, the currency wasn't gold or paper, but points on a social ledger.
Your worth was your Social Credit Score, earned through a family's tax records, credit scores, and overall contribution to the society. It was calculated based on the records that the governnt kept of people and their families.
For example, those with criminal records had lower scores than average citizens.
Those whose family had paid taxes regularly, before the apocalypse struck, would enjoy more benefits than others. Businessn who contributed largely to the economy were practiclaly swimming in Social Credit Points.
As for Holess people, it would be best not to ntion their fate…
This family, in particular, had scraped together their remaining points to buy the life-saving dicine, and the system had promised delivery "in 1–3 months."
But their daughter didn't have months. She might not even have a week.
"Maybe… maybe this Rider will be faster," the father muttered, almost to himself. "The alert said he picked up the delivery today."
The mother let out a bitter laugh. "Today? That just ans we'll get it in… two weeks, if we're lucky. You know how Riders are. They're always late. The roads, the monsters… the dangers are endless. No one blas them for it." Thᴇ link to the origɪn of this information rᴇsts ɪn novelFɪre
Apart from that, the nearest outpost that had the drug they needed was a Zone away.
That was too far!
It would take too long for their order to be received.
The father sank onto the couch beside her, pulling his wife close. Both their eyes lingered on their child's fragile figure, chest rising and falling with frightening irregularity.
Silence stretched. Only the hum of the generators and the faint rattle of shutters against the wind filled the room.
Then—
DING DONG!
The sound of the front doorbell echoed through the house.
Both parents froze.
"…Was that—?"
"Impossible."
They stared at each other, wide-eyed, before scrambling toward the reinforced door. A tallic voice followed the chi, clear and absurdly cheerful:
"Sobin, E Rank Rider, is here. Your delivery has arrived!"
The parents nearly tripped over each other.
"Already?!" the mother gasped.
The father's face drained of color. "No, no, it can't be. It must be a Plunderer! Soone's impersonating a Rider to steal what little we have left!"
With shaking hands, he grabbed their household device, pulling up the app. His eyes scanned the screen—and widened in shock.
The Rider's beacon really was blinking right outside their door.
It matched the request ID. The package had been marked as out for delivery.
"It's real…" he whispered.
The mother clutched his arm. "Then—open the slit! Quickly!"
With trembling fingers, the father unlatched a small slot in the door. The tal cover slid back, revealing a narrow horizontal slit just big enough to peek outside.
And there he was.
A young man stood in the fading light, a wide, radiant grin plastered across his face. His uniform was clean, his Rider License proudly displayed, and in his hands was a reinforced container—the very package they had ordered.
"Good evening!" Sobin chirped, practically glowing. "Sobin, E Rank Rider, reporting for duty! And might I say—what lovely shutters you have! They really accentuate the apocalyptic décor!"
The couple blinked at him, speechless.
"…You're… the Rider?" the father asked cautiously.
"Yes indeed!" Sobin puffed out his chest, almost dropping the package in his enthusiasm.
The mother's eyes imdiately welled with tears. "The dicine! Is that the dicine? Please—please give it to us! Our daughter—she's gravely ill! We need it now!"
Sobin's smile softened, and for a mont, it seed like he would hand it over imdiately.
But then—
He pulled the package slightly back and shook his head. "Ah, I'm afraid I can't do that just yet."
Both parents stiffened.
"What do you an?" the father demanded, panic sharpening his tone.
Sobin cleared his throat and adjusted his grip on the box, speaking with the gravity of a judge laying down the law. "Before I hand over any delivery, I must confirm one thing first…"
The couple leaned closer, hearts pounding.
"…paynt verification!" Sobin declared dramatically, wagging his finger. "No paynt, no package. That is the sacred creed of the Deliveryman!"
The mother and father stared at him in disbelief, mouths hanging open.
"W-what?!"
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