"Get out. Never come back, you piece of shit!" shouted a middle-aged man, his face red with anger and twisted in disgust. He hurled a frail-looking body down the street like it was garbage.
A loaf of moss-covered bread was clutched in the boy's trembling hands, barely held together by willpower alone.
"Tsk. This place is already full of rats and cockroaches. Go die somewhere else," the man grumbled, voice laced with disdain. He dusted his hands as if the boy were a plague rather than a person.
This was a daily occurrence. The poor crawled from their hiding holes into a world already ravaged by war, where human life and dignity meant nothing. The strong ruled and prevailed. The weak were sacrificed—living meat shields to protect the privileged. For someone like the boy, everyone was more fortunate. In the food chain of the new world order, he ranked below insects.
He didn't know what his sin was. Maybe it was breathing the same air as those who saw themselves as superior. Or maybe just being born of the same race?
He was clueless to his own misery. His world revolved around begging or stealing food, getting beaten, returning to his "home"—a bunker of sorts—and eating what he had. A taste mixed with moss, dirt, and blood.
A life of an animal. Pure instinct.
This had always been his reality. Today was no different. He tightened his grip around the hard loaf of bread like it was a lifeline. A long-awaited meal. He wobbled to his feet.
His body trembled. Lifeless hazel eyes stared at the ground. His disheveled, raven-black hair hung down, framing a face smeared with grime. Hollow cheeks. Cracked lips. Dry skin. Purple circles around his eyes from endless, sleepless nights.
His clothes were oversized—a simple black shirt filled with holes, and pants barely reaching his ankles. His bare feet showed scars from long ago.
He was short. Bones jutted under pale, sickly skin. Just looking at him, one could feel the life draining away. If no miracle saved him, the boy would die soon. His days were numbered.
But no one offered sympathy. Only scornful looks were thrown his way.
The boy limped down the ruined street. Garbage littered the asphalt. Homeless people lived in makeshift cardboard shelters beside overflowing bins. Stalls traded all manner of goods—broken tools, expired food, used clothes. Chaos reigned. Vendors shouted over one another, promoting wares like hawks. Dogs and rats moved across the street like regular pedestrians.
This was the slum. The end of the world in all but name. The scent of decay hung in the air, thick and inescapable. A sickly blend of mold, sweat, rust, and ash.
A child screamed somewhere behind a collapsed building. A mother yelled. Then silence. Nothing out of the ordinary.
The boy passed a crumpled billboard barely clinging to the wall. Once, it boasted a utopia—towering spires, clean skies, flying cars, promises of ascension. Now it was smeared in filth, torn through by claws or blades.
But what drew attention even more than the chaos was the metallic wall in the distance—looming like a giant's arm, separating the poor from the "gods" on the other side. Its shadow blanketed half the district. An ethereal barrier that divided two worlds.
Beyond that wall lay another reality. Neon towers reached the clouds, their lights mocking the darkness below. Artificial weather kept the skies clear and air fresh. Food grew in towers. Water flowed in fountains. People there had dreams. Here, people had regrets.
The boy continued, limping on his right leg until he reached an alley. Turning left, he entered a dimly lit passage. The air reeked. Rats squeaked in the dark.
He staggered forward and stopped in front of a garbage can, near a door that led to one of the few restaurants for the rich—the gangsters, the corrupt. A hub for predators. It didn't matter if the food was bad; the power here was currency.
A clicking sound came from the garbage can. Something emerged. A ball of fluff. A strange little creature—black, soft, and bouncy. It leapt onto the boy's face.
The boy caught it with one hand and studied it for the hundredth time.
A plump, shadowy ball with red glowing eyes and tiny, twisted horns. Its fur swirled like ink in water. It had small arms, stubby legs, and a whip-like tail that gave a sinister edge to its cuteness.
The boy tilted his head and muttered in a passive, apologetic tone, "Sorry I was late today."
He broke a piece of the hard bread and offered it. "Here. I know it's not much..."
The creature stared back, mimicking his motion. Then it opened its mouth—a gaping, bottomless void—and swallowed the piece whole. It burped, satisfied, and nuzzled against the boy's cheek, grateful for the meal.
It was an odd bond—a human and a monster of unknown origin. The boy believed it had sneaked past security, maybe from the nearby forest, or escaped detection from a some gate's containment unit.
Not that it mattered to him. The world would care—but he didn't. He was just glad to have company, no matter how bizarre.
Loneliness had taken its toll. Humans were social by nature. But he was unwanted.
His earliest memory was running. And he'd never stopped. He didn't even know what chased him. He just kept going.
Life never gave him answers—only pain and hunger.
He'd never had a proper conversation. Only contempt. The sad irony was that he never even knew what he was missing. Like a bird in a cage, unaware of the sky.
He didn't even have the tools to imagine a better life. All he'd known was the bunker, the slums, and this fluffy creature.
He was strangely content with that. A literal frog in the well.
Ignorance truly was bliss.
A moment of peace bloomed amid the chaos. The creature's fur warmed his hands and cheeks. For the boy, it meant everything.
But peace was short-lived.
A storm broke it—loud and sudden. The side door banged open. Two men stepped out. One tall and slim, the other shorter but stocky, with bodies inked in tattoos.
In a blur, the creature vanished into the garbage can. The boy, now empty-handed, whispered in betrayal, "Traitor."
The men froze upon spotting him.
The slim one scratched his head. "Well, this is a problem."
The boy turned his head, sensing danger. He saw a body being dragged—a humanoid corpse.
Alarms blared in his mind. He stepped back.
The stocky man shrugged. "Just break his neck before he makes a scene."
The tall one sighed. "I'd rather carry the body than touch that filthy brat."
The boy's body tensed. He'd faced death before.
He spun as fast as he could and dashed, but before he could take a step, a hand grabbed his hair. "Ahh!" he cried out.
He was yanked back, slammed against the wall. The air left his lungs. The world blurred.
"Stay put," said a voice. A kick landed in his gut. He vomited—blood, acid, bile.
"You... YOU. My shoes," the slim man growled, furious that saliva had hit his already dirty boot.
He raised his leg again and stomped—full force—onto the boy's thin legs. A cracking sound echoed. The boy whimpered—a broken, muffled cry like a tortured animal.
The man didn't stop. First his legs. Then his ribs. Then arms. One bone at a time.
The bulkier man watched, unfazed. "Once he starts, there's no stopping him."
The boy's senses dulled. He couldn't feel his body. Only muffled cries escaped him. One thought echoed in his mind: 'What's going on...?'
His vision faded. Eyelids heavy. The urge to sleep grew stronger.
Death wrapped him in its arms—warm and soft, like a bed after a long day of hard work.
He wished he could just let go.
Nothing was holding him back anymore.