The hunger sets in by the third day.

  I don't know how long I slept, how long I bled or shivered in that alley, but when I finally crawl back into the broken daylight of Deadreach, there's a dull, gnawing ache inside me that won’t stop. It’s more than pain—it’s a slow death.

  I scavenge for food. Trash bins. Rat-chewed corners. A crust of bread soaked in piss. I gag, but I eat it. I have to. My stomach burns and churns, my throat dry and cracked from days without water.

  The people of Deadreach don’t care. They move past me like I’m nothing. No one looks me in the eye. No one stops. They’ve all seen too many like me—kids dropped into the filth to rot.

  At night, I find a corner to sleep in, tucked beneath broken stone and rusted tin. The wind bites, and I dream of warm kitchens, soft sheets, and the heavy silence of the Delmire halls. But when I wake, all I feel is stone under my back and something crawling near my leg.

  I see others like me—discarded, half-dead, starved—but they’re older. Harder. Some sell scraps. Some sell themselves. I watch a boy no older than me disappear into a shed with a man twice his size. I hear sounds. I turn away.

  The thought crosses my mind.

  Maybe I could—

  No.

  Not yet.

  I’d rather die hungry than let them take that from me.

  But each day it gets harder. The pain becomes familiar, like a friend I can’t shake. My fingers tremble constantly. My lips crack and bleed. Every now and then, someone kicks at me, calls me filth, tells me to move. I curl tighter, trying to think—trying to survive.

  The mark. It has to be useful. It has to be worth something. I know where he is. I can hear him. There has to be a way to use that.

  Anything.

  I won't last like this.

  And yet, I keep waking up. That part surprises me.

  Maybe it’s spite. Maybe it’s whatever that dark thing is inside me now. Maybe it’s the memory of the warehouse and the men who thought they broke me.

  I’m still breathing.

  Let them see how long that lasts.

  But even spite has limits.

  I try to steal from a vendor’s cart—just a bruised apple, nothing more. He catches me before I can run. Slams my head against the stall and roars for the others. They drag me into the alley. Kick me. Spit on me. Tell me they'll cut off my hands next time. One of them shoves a blade under my chin and tells me there’s easier ways to earn a bite. Easier ways to be useful.

  Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  I crawl away, ribs screaming. Vomit in the corner of a shattered stairwell. I can barely stand.

  By the seventh day, I’m shaking so bad I can’t even hold the crust of bread I manage to dig out of a trash heap. It slips from my fingers twice before I can bring it to my mouth. Every swallow feels like gravel in my throat, and I can’t tell if I’m chewing or just grinding my teeth from the cold.

  Then fever hits. My skin burns, my head spins, and everything becomes sound and shadow. I think I see my mother’s face, twisted in disgust. I think I hear my uncle saying, 'You were never worth the name.' I think I hear the man I marked—Gav—laughing again, talking about the chest, the mark.

  I want to move. I want to fight. I want to rip something apart with my bare hands just so the ache in my gut stops being about hunger or shame. But all I do is shiver.

  I can’t tell what’s worse—the ache in my gut or the way my thoughts keep looping. How long can I keep this up? How long before I’m just another corpse behind a barrel, another nameless face rotting in the alleys?

  There’s a shadow nearby. I feel it more than I see it. Heavy. Still. Watching.

  And then a voice—low, like gravel dragged across stone.

  “Still breathing.”

  I blink, barely able to lift my head. A silhouette approaches—coat swaying, boots scraping softly over the broken stone. The edge of a charm swings from his belt, catching a sliver of light. His face is rough, older, carved by time and hard choices. His eyes are sharp. Unforgiving.

  It takes me a second to recognize him. The man from the gates. The one who told me to keep my head down. The first voice I heard when I crossed into this gutter of a world.

  He hasn’t tried to kill me. That alone puts him higher than most.

  “You're a tough little bastard,” he says. “Didn’t expect you to last this long.”

  He squats beside me, and I feel the weight of him, the authority, the stillness. Not pity. Not even curiosity. Just assessment.

  “Most kids would’ve sold themselves by now,” he says. “Hell, I did once. Thought it was the only way.”

  I try to speak, but my throat is raw. Nothing comes out.

  He studies me for a long moment. “But you didn’t. Still haven’t. Even now.”

  A crust of bread drops onto the stone near my head. I flinch at the sound.

  “You want to eat?” he says. “Then show me you’re more than a mouth.”

  He stands. Doesn’t wait for a reply.

  “Rest while you can,” he mutters. “You’ll need it.”

  And then he’s gone.

  But the bread stays.

  And for the first time in days, I eat without begging, bartering, or clawing it from the garbage.

  That night, I don’t sleep so much as drift—barely conscious, the crust of bread heavy in my gut. It isn’t comfort. It’s fuel. Just enough to think straight again.

  The next morning, I’m weaker than ever, but something is different. Not in my body. In the air. Like I’m being watched again. Judged.

  So I try.

  I try again, with information. It’s all I have left. I approach a merchant near the corner stalls, tell him I know where a gang of thieves is hiding out. Tell him I can hear what they say, even from across the city. He gives me a long stare, then bursts out laughing. Calls me cracked. Threatens to call the dogs on me.

  I try another—an older woman fencing stolen goods out of a shack behind a crumbling tenement. I whisper names, places, things the marked man said. She doesn’t even look up from her ledger.

  “Try selling lies somewhere else,” she says. “And next time, don’t stink of rot.”

  I stumble away, humiliated. Useless. But I still hear Gav. Still hear him talking about the chest. Still don’t hear fear in his voice.

  I mark someone else—a pickpocket this time. Just to test it. Later, I hear him whispering in a back alley, talking about the route he runs, the fences he sells to.

  It’s real. It’s dangerous.

  And I’m the only one who knows what it can become.

  He shows up again the next evening.

  Doesn’t say a word at first. Just leans against the wall, arms folded, eyes like knives. Watching me like I'm a question he's still deciding whether to answer.

  He tilts his head, like he’s already regretting what he’s about to say.

  Then, finally: “I’ve got a job for you.”