Morning broke like it always does in the slums—to remind us of the hell we live in.
But today felt different. Sharper.
I was already awake. I don't remember the last time I slept a full night.
You learn quick not to close both eyes at once around here. Especially when the rats start getting brave enough to crawl across your chest.
I sat with my back against a rotted wall, half-covered by a coat stiff with old blood. Not mine.
The room stank of piss, mold, and burnt incense—like someone tried to hide the rot after it had already set in.
It wasn't my room.
The mattress still had long gray hairs stuck in it. The pot by the stove had a ring of dried stew clinging to the sides. She must've made it the night before. Maybe she thought she'd wake up to eat it.
She didn't.
I didn't leave a mess. Just rearranged things.
I stood and rolled my shoulder until it cracked.
The room creaked with me.
Across from the stove, nailed crooked to the wall, was a shard of mirror—clouded at the edges, stained where silver had peeled.
I looked into it.
Pale.
Drawn.
Eyes like ash left in the rain.
Thin, but muscles where it mattered.
Cheekbones sharp enough to cut. Black hair limp, falling across my brow like even it didn't want to be there.
"Dashing for a 18 year old"
There was something under my eye—bruise or shadow, didn't matter.
In the bottom corner of the glass, half-buried in shadow, something red hung from a stool.
A dress.
Blood drying at the hem.
Not mine.
I pulled my eyes away, strapped the knife to my hip, and grabbed what was left of a crust of bread off the table. It crumbled in my hand. Still warm, barely.
It's kill or be killed here in the slums— and I don't plan on dying anytime soon.
People like to talk about getting out of the slums.
Starting over.
Building something.
I've never understood the point.
Out there, you're still starving—just better dressed. You still bleed when someone wants what's yours. You still die alone.
Difference is, out there, you have to pretend it means something.
Here? I don't have to pretend.
I kill when I need to.
Steal when I want to.
Survive however I can.
That's the only thing that makes sense anymore—survival.
People act like it's noble to suffer for something greater. Something brighter.
Bright things get snuffed out.
I've felt it.
Now I look only for food, warmth, shadows to vanish into.
That's enough.
The market was already churning when I stepped outside. Not that I planned to buy anything. My money was as fake as my smile, and both were worthless.
But people get sloppy when they're desperate.
Especially in the morning rush.
I moved through the crowd like smoke—shoving past, slipping hands, cutting pouches. No one noticed. Or if they did, I was gone before they noticed.
Most people look each other in the face.
I stopped doing that a long time ago.
It's easier not to.
Makes them less real.
Easier to steal from. Easier to hurt.
Easier to kill.
Somewhere along the line, they all started blurring together—eyes, mouths, names. Just outlines in the fog.
I don't see people anymore.
I see problems. I see threats. I see what I need, and what gets in the way.
And that's enough.
Some beggar tried to get my attention near the alley mouth. Old man, no legs. Just stubs where knees used to be and a voice rasping for mercy.
I didn't stop.
He grabbed my boot.
So I kicked him in the throat.
The slums are rot with a heartbeat.
People crawl through the mud pretending they're alive. Beggars, thieves, addicts, whores. All of us dragging around bones too tired to break. Every street here stinks like piss and oil. Every alley hums with something hungry.
The walls are black with soot. The air chokes you if you breathe too deep. But the worst part—the part that really eats you alive—is how normal it all feels.
No one's coming to save us.
No one ever did.
You can tell a lot about a place by who gets to stand still.
Here, everyone moves. You stop, you get noticed. You shine, you bleed.
That's the rule.
The Radiant Order pretends to be above it all.
High towers. White robes. Smiles made of stone.
They talk about light like it's salvation.
It's not.
It's ownership.
If you're Giftborn—born glowing, blessed, touched—they take you. Brand you. Call it holy.
You grow up inside the marble cages, taught how to smile while you burn. You learn to bend flame and metal and bone.
They say it's a gift.
I've only ever seen it used to crush people.
Those bastards strut through the inner city like gods with gilded boots. Some of them actually believe they are. If you're strong enough, they let you live like royalty. If you're not—well, you get to "serve."
Funny how divine power always ends up in the hands of the cruel.
And the ones who aren't cruel? The ones who try to help?
They disappear.
Or they learn to shut up.
Or they burn.
Me?
I was born normal.
No glow. No brand. No use.
Just one more mouth to ignore.
And for that, I'm lucky.
Because it means I get to stay hidden. Stay dangerous.
Stay scum.
The sun had started to drop.
The slums turned gold for a few minutes every day. Not the good kind of gold. The kind that made filth shimmer and looked pretty enough to trick you into thinking anything here was worth saving.
That's when people let their guard down. Hope always made them stupid.
I needed a place to sleep.
Somewhere warm. Somewhere with food I didn't have to steal off a corpse.
I'd been trailing a drunk near the docks, but he wandered too close to a patrol and vanished before I could grab his purse.
Fine.
Plenty of others.
I crouch behind a half-collapsed wall—some old merchant's stall burned down years ago, now just a skeleton of scorched wood and rusted nails.
The wall behind me is covered in a mural.
Faded reds and cracked white paint—hundreds of painted faces stacked together, shoulder to shoulder, stretching from the ground to the roofline.
All staring forward.
None smiling.
I don't know what it's supposed to mean.
Maybe it meant something once.
Now it's just another thing rotting in the open.
That's when I saw her.
Small. Fast. Dress torn at the edges, but clean where it mattered. Clutching a cloth-wrapped bundle like it was made of glass.
Bread. Warm.
She was smiling.
Not just smirking or faking it—smiling.
Like someone who thought tomorrow might be better than today.
Like she didn't belong here.
I felt something turn in my gut. Not hunger.
Anger.
People like her didn't get to walk through this place looking happy.
Not when the rest of us were bleeding in alleys for scraps.
She has a coin pouch, I could tell. But it was empty now. Must've spent it all.
That made things easier.
No money meant no panic. Just the food. Just the warmth.
Just one clean hit.
I followed her for a block. Two.
She didn't look back once.
Confident. Or tired. Either worked.
She turned down a side alley.
I moved after her.
She took another turn, deeper into the maze of broken homes.
Then she stopped.
Small house. Sagging roof. Door patched with cloth and scrapwood. Nothing special.
But she walked in like it meant something.
Like it was hers.
I didn't follow through the door. I'm not an idiot.
Years in the slums taught me more than how to steal. They taught me how to move.
I circled the back, climbed a stack of crates, pushed off the wall and caught the ledge of the window with one hand.
Slipped through without a sound.
The room was warm.
Not by much—but enough to notice.
There was a boy on a mat in the corner, curled up in a threadbare blanket. Sound asleep. Didn't even stir.
She didn't notice me.
She stood near the table, gently unwrapping the bread. Humming.
Actually humming.
Some soft, stupid little tune like the world hadn't already ended.
Like everything was going to be okay.
I froze in the shadow.
She smiled softly, tearing the bread gently, humming like tomorrow mattered.
Something dark twisted inside me. Tomorrow was a lie.
My hand found the knife.
I didn't think.
I didn't hesitate.
One step. Two.
She never turned.
I drove it into her back.
Felt the resistance. The warmth. The breath leave her lungs all at once.
She staggered, then turned to face me.
And for the first time—I saw her face.
Or what was supposed to be a face.
Eyes wide, not with fear, but recognition.
Her lips parted.
But no sound came out.
The bread hit the floor.
A second later, so did she.