"Giyo, is this all you've got? Just one measly bronze coin? Did you sleep all day or something?"
The harsh voice cut through the dusty air like a whip.
A young man, barely in his mid-twenties, sat atop a crate that served as his makeshift throne.
His clothes were tattered and worn, but he wore them with the arrogance of a king.
Around his neck hung a rusted chain, and in his hand, he twirled a wooden cane like a scepter.
His name was Daiki, and in this forgotten alley behind the market, he was the one who ruled over the street rats.
Before him stood a boy, small and frail, his ribs faintly visible beneath a thin linen shirt several sizes too big for him. Giyo.
His age was hard to determine—somewhere between seven and ten—but the hollowness in his cheeks and the bags beneath his eyes aged him in a different way.
His hands trembled as he held up the bronze coin, as though the meager weight of it was too much for his weakened arms.
"I tried really hard, Master Daiki," Giyo said, his voice barely above a whisper. "But people didn't give much today. I—I don't know why."
His eyes were watery, rimmed red from the dust and exhaustion. He looked up at Daiki with a desperate hope, as though his honesty might buy him a sliver of mercy.
But Daiki only sneered. He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing into slits.
"You think effort matters to me, brat? Results. That's what I care about. You bring me a coin even the rats wouldn't touch, and you expect dinner?"
Giyo shrank back, biting his lip to stop the tears that were threatening to fall. His small fingers closed tightly around the coin, as if afraid Daiki might take even that from him.
"No food for you tonight," Daiki said coldly. "You can have soup—if there's any left after the others eat. Maybe that'll teach you to work harder."
Then, louder, he barked, "Next!"
The line shuffled forward. A dozen other children, each in varying states of filth and fatigue, clutched their own day's earnings—some a few coins, others a bit of bread or trinkets they'd managed to pilfer.
All of them eyed Daiki with a mix of fear and obedience.
Giyo didn't move. He stepped aside and slumped into the corner of the alley, curling up behind a stack of broken crates.
There, in the shadows, he let the tears fall silently. His stomach growled, but he ignored it.
He watched as the others stepped up one by one, offering what little they had for the promise of a bowl of gruel or a scrap of stale bread.
In this place, mercy didn't exist. Only usefulness.
And today, Giyo had failed.
An hour later, the food finally arrived, and the long line of beggars was served.
The meal was simple—hard, stale bread and a watery vegetable soup with barely any chunks.
It wasn't much, but for starving stomachs, it was a feast.
When it was Giyo's turn, he stepped forward eagerly, his eyes filled with desperate hope.
But the pot was empty. Not even a drop of soup remained.
One of the older boys, tasked with distributing the food, shook his head and turned away without a word.
Giyo stood frozen. He glanced around at the others who had already begun eating, hunched over their portions like animals guarding a rare treasure.
His lips trembled, and then the tears came again. Quiet, helpless sobs.
He wasn't the only one crying.
Scattered around the alley, others shared his fate—children of different ages, all thin, all dirty, all hungry.
This was the reality of their world.
There were nearly a hundred of them in Daiki's gang alone, a ragtag group of orphans, runaways, and abandoned children scraping by under his rule.
And they were only allowed to beg in three streets of Hakugawa City.
Hakugawa was massive—home to half a million people—but it was also crawling with beggars.
Over 20,000 of them, all competing for scraps, loose coins, and pity.
In the chaos of the city's slums, generosity was rare, and survival came at a price.
Giyo returned to his spot, picked up his thin blanket, and gathered some crumpled paper to lie on.
He curled up against the side of a cracked wall, hoping sleep would dull the ache in his stomach.
Earlier, he had tried to trick his body by drinking water—cup after cup—to pretend he was full.
But it wasn't enough. The hunger twisted in his belly like a knife.
He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the pain, tried to drift off, but it hurt too much.
A whimper escaped his lips, followed by more silent tears.
Then, a soft tap on his shoulder.
"Wake up, Giyo. Eat this."
The whisper reached his ears like a gentle breeze.
He opened his eyes to see a girl crouched beside him, her face streaked with mud and charcoal.
She smelled like smoke, garbage, and the streets—but to Giyo, she was nothing short of an angel.
"Makoto…" he breathed, his voice a mix of shock and joy.
"Shhhh." Makoto quickly covered his mouth with her hand.
She glanced around, then pulled something from her tattered coat—three small loaves of hard bread.
"Eat," she mouthed, her eyes urgent but kind.
Giyo nodded quickly. He sat up, leaning his back against the rough stone behind him.
Makoto did the same, the two of them huddled together beneath a patchy old cloak.
The evening air was sharp and cold, chilling them to the bone, but they were used to it. This was their life.
With trembling hands, Giyo devoured the bread, tears streaming down his face as he chewed in silence.
The loaves were tough and dry, but they were food—real food—and to him, they tasted better than anything in the world.
When he finished, he looked at Makoto with wide, grateful eyes. She was only a year older than him, but she was the only person in the city who treated him like a human being.
Makoto was 11 while Giyo was 10.
He hadn't seen her earlier in the day, but that wasn't surprising.
She was already a rank above him in the gang.
Giyo was just a Rat—one of the lowest, left to beg and survive on whatever scraps came his way.
But Makoto was a Cat.
Cats were the skilled ones. They knew how to steal, how to vanish in the crowd, how to bring in enough to be noticed. They didn't beg anymore. They hunted.
And yet, here she was—sharing her stolen bread with him.
In a city that had given him nothing, Makoto was the only warmth Giyo had ever known.
"Thank you so much, Makoto. You saved me," Giyo whispered, his voice raw with gratitude.
There had been a time, long ago, when he had called her Big Sister Makoto.
But after that, she stopped visiting him. Weeks turned into months, and she never came around.
Giyo had eventually realized he must've done something wrong.
Maybe the title had bothered her. So he never called her that again.
Makoto sat beside him in silence for a moment, her eyes scanning the alley as if watching for shadows.
Then she spoke in a soft voice, one only he could hear.
"This won't last forever, Giyo. A few more years, and I'll be gone. I'll leave the gang. When that happens… you'll have to survive on your own. You need to learn how to steal."
Giyo's eyes widened. He looked down at his hands, then back at her, shaking his head. "But stealing is bad, Makoto. I don't want to go to jail."
His innocence shimmered in the cold night like a fragile flame refusing to die.
In this world that had already crushed so many, Giyo still clung to the belief that good and bad mattered—that right and wrong were real.
That was why Makoto kept helping him.
Others in the gang had long since given in, swayed by hunger, fear, and desperation.
But Giyo... he was different. Oblivious, maybe. Or maybe just too pure for a place like this.
Makoto didn't know whether that was a blessing or a curse.
"You…" she started, but her voice trailed off as she shook her head. Words failed her.
Then suddenly—light.
The dark alley lit up with a flash that turned night into day.
Bang!
A deafening sound cracked through the city like thunder, echoing off the buildings and shaking the ground beneath them.
Makoto instinctively grabbed Giyo and pulled him close.
Something had just happened.
And it wasn't good.