Men like to believe they think for themselves. That their choices are their own. Yet a man alone is just a man. No one is truly their own.
Put a man among wolves, and he'll learn to howl. As a man becomes what he stands among. Virtue among saints. Violence among savages.
Call it nature. Call that man a follower. Still, the truth remains.
In life, no man stays stagnant and survives. We evolve because we have no other choice. The desires of the world reflect a man's nature…
And in the end, I can't help but notice—
That reflection tries to mirror my own.
Hunger had settled deep, an ache without edges. The feeling did little more than linger, quiet and insistent.
He hadn't eaten more than three or four times in the past seven days, half of it stolen. The rest scavenged—scraps pulled from bins seconds before the dogs.
But hunger wasn't the worst of it.
Hunger made people reckless. A sort of recklessness brought the wrong kind of attention.
He hadn't been out long, but he'd already learned what mattered; don't let your eyes linger, don't run, and don't stand out.
A ghost does not slink through the streets like prey. A ghost drifts. Moving around unseen.
But ghosts did not steal.
And ghosts did not shiver in the night, bare feet cracked from the cold.
He was not a ghost. No—if anything, he was more like a stray cat. Small. Skittish. Half-feral from malnutrition. Even in space, the boy seemed like he felt backed into a corner. A boy with those prerequisites—especially on his own—wasn't going to fit in the way he hoped.
He kept walking. No destination—just the instinct to keep moving. His eyes, dry and tired, wandered the city, if it could even be called that.
The Stray realized the night stripped any liveliness from the city. As soon as the sun set, doors were chained and vendor gates pulled shut. There was an unspoken fear that seemed to be obvious.
The lack of audience gave the streets a hollowed aura. A silence waiting to be filled.
The Stray's legs ached, his head felt light, and his ribs curled inward as if his body were trying to bind itself together. He stuck out like a sore thumb in a street where only dealers and junkies dared to be seen.
He'd known that long before the sun bled out behind the skyline, and the incoming night made him want to stop and rest. But the nights before had taught him—keep moving. Blending in was already hard enough with lime moss coating the street like snow, patchy where bare concrete broke through. Some of it crumbled underfoot. But the real problem was contrast, his torn mustard-yellow shirt lit him up against all that white. Even at night.
Rest made you an easy mark.
Someone had already tried to roll him once for the nothing he had. He hadn't made that mistake twice.
But the subtle shift of air behind him warned him he'd made a whole new mistake.
He turned.
"There you are."
The voice was closer than it should've been.
He had the look of someone used to getting what he wanted. He'd boasted broad shoulders, thick arms, a mouth caught somewhere between a smirk and a scar. He chewed something as he spoke, the crack of his teeth sharp against the hush of the street.
Another shadow moved beside him. Then another.
Three of them. Maybe four.
The Stray was counting—spacing, stride, the weight of the ground beneath him.
Above, the sky loomed in its final phase of night, deep red, almost black—like the embers of a dying fire, stained that way by the sea, just like everything else. It gave just enough light to measure the distance.
But what mattered now was what stood between him and the street.
And he had nowhere to go but back.
And backward wasn't a viable option.
The man exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. "Took us a while to find you. Lotta people acted like they didn't see you." He cracked his knuckles. "Either way, here we are."
He began to chuckle, " you know being a tough guy has its consequences, right?"
The Stray shifted his weight, fingers brushing the handle of the rusted blade in his pocket. It wasn't much. It wasn't enough.
They moved first.
A fist drove into his ribs, folding him like he wasn't even worth the effort it took to break him. Before he could suck in a breath, another blow cracked against his temple, turning the world into a mess of noise and light.
Stray staggered. Someone caught the collar of his shirt, yanked him forward like a dog on a leash—then slammed him down.
Then came the boots.
Once. A sharp burst of pain in his side.
Twice. A crunch, something inside him giving way.
Again. And again.
His body caved in on itself, instincts screaming for him to curl up, to make himself smaller, to disappear—but they weren't done. A hand tangled in his hair, wrenching his head up, just long enough for a knuckle to split the corner of his mouth.
His vision swam. Black on the edges. Red in the center.
And then, the voice—flat, almost bored, like this was nothing new. Just routine. Just another body to leave behind.
"Should've stayed dead, kid."
The words barely registered. His mind slipped, dragging him back to the night that started all of this.
Not here.
Somewhere else.
That stink of liquor—he'd smelled it before.
Less than two days. That's all it had taken to find him again.
Stray hadn't let himself think about it. Buried it under exhaustion. Karma obviously had its own way of dragging things back.
He had felt these same fingers those days ago. A rough, drunken grip. A breath thick against his neck.
He hadn't screamed. He knew better than to scream.
Stray had reached for his only weapon—a rusted metal shard he'd found. Twisted fast and stabbed. He hadn't even aimed.
He recalled the whisper of rusted metal in his grip. No plan or hesitation. Focused purely on survival. The sound a blade had made when it sunk into something soft. The way blood steamed when it hit the cold pavement.
There was a loud, deafening, wince that was followed by a release.
He'd run. Never looked back. Never checked if the man lived. Didn't care.
By the time he'd stopped running, his hands had been shaking. Not even from the fear of what he may have just done. But right back to hunger.
A boot crashed into his ribs, ripping him out of the memory like a knife to the gut.
He gasped, something inside him straining against the force of it. Stray's body still attempting to fold inward, wanting to disappear into the cracks of the pavement.
But they weren't done yet.
Someone grabbed his shoulder, rolled him onto his back.
Above him, the man with the scarred mouth held a crowbar. Raised high.
With this final assault—the one that would steal the breath from his lungs—his body failed him. No movement. No fight.
"NO PLE—"
"Wow. That's what we're doing?"
The voice didn't belong—too calm, too casual, like someone interrupting a conversation, not a beating. It came from behind them, near the fire exit.
The gang turned, reflexively, expecting cops or maybe a completely foreign threat. Instead, a boy no older than twelve stepped into view.
His hands were tucked in his pockets like he hadn't seen such a disturbing sight. He looked.. Disappointed more than anything.
"Kinda pathetic," he said, not looking at any of them directly. "All of you piling on one half-dead kid. That's the plan?"
He scanned the group with a slight tilt of his head, like he was still doing the math.
"Four of you? Five?"
…
Laughter broke the silence.
It started slow, a low chuckle from one of the men behind the scarred one. Then another joined in.
Then another.
The Stray was still gasping for breath on the ground, blinking past the haze of pain in his skull, but he could hear it. The way it spread between them, like this was some inside joke he wasn't in on.
The man with the scarred mouth exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. "Of course it's you."
One of the others wiped at his mouth, still chuckling. "Shouldn't you be locked up somewhere?"
Hikari hadn't moved. Still standing there, hands on his hips, grinning like he didn't just walk into a fight he couldn't win.
One of the thugs clicked his tongue. "This what you do now? Playing hero? You think anybody's buying that?"
Hikari shrugged. "Didn't know I had fans."
A snort from the side. A whisper, slithering between curiosity and disdain.
"Ain't he the one who—?"
Cut off. Like they already knew the answer.
"The house fire? Mmhmm."
A pause, just long enough for the weight of it to settle. A few of the thugs started to fade backwards.
"Didn't they say he locked the door first?"
A slow, exaggerated whistle, low and drawn out.
"That's some sick shit."
One of them leaned on his crowbar, shaking his head, like he'd just watched a drunk piss himself in the street. His expression carried nothing but humorous disgust.
"And now he wants to play the good guy?"
That original humor hadn't come back, but it had turned into something else.
Pity.
Hikari's expression didn't change.
He was grinning like he didn't hear them at all.
The man with the scarred mouth looked almost indifferent, he studied Hikari a second longer. Then sighed.
"C'mon." He jerked his chin toward the others. "Ain't tryna be seen with that."
Something in him said to cut the boy down and burn out whatever hell was growing in him. But that wasn't his call. And he didn't care enough to make it his.
The gang started moving, but the man lingered. He looked at Hikari again, something unreadable in his face now.
"After what you pulled, you really think you have the right to judge us?"
The words weren't a warning. They weren't a threat.
Hikari didn't react.
Then Scarface turned and walked away.
The laughter faded with them.
The alley was quiet now.
The laughter had faded, swallowed by the city, leaving only the faint echo of footsteps retreating into the night.
The younger child still hadn't moved. Every breath scraped away at his ribs. He tried to push himself upright, but his arms shook beneath him. His body had nothing left.
A sigh.
Stray flinched at the sound, only then realizing Hikari was still there—still a few feet away, hands in his pockets, watching. That grin hadn't left his face, but something in him had gone stiff. Like he was caught between choices.
Like he'd almost walked away.
Instead, he sighed and reached into his jacket. Something small. Crushed a little from being carried around.
A half-eaten loaf of bread.
Hikari turned it over in his hands once, thumb pressing against the torn edge.
His grin twitched—just slightly.
Then, without looking at the boy, he crouched down and tossed it into his lap.
The Stray tensed. His hands didn't move.
Hikari clicked his tongue. "Relax. I'm trying to help."
Still, his hands were frozen.
He didn't understand.
People don't do things like this.
He couldn't imagine why he would want to —help him.
Hikari had already pushed himself back up, stretching like he hadn't just handed over something valuable. But before he turned his gaze off the Stray, he hesitated again.
Then—another sigh.
Hikari pulled off his hoodie. A dark red, it was already too big on him. The sleeves were an entire blanket around his wrists and the hem was hanging much lower than it should have. Not to mention, he was already bigger than the boy. The hoodie practically swallowed him whole.
And then—finally—he turned to leave.
The Stray stared down at the red hoodie.
Didn't touch it.
But Hikari had left the alley without a word.
The streets of Sector 3 stretched before him, narrow and winding. The buildings here slouched like tired men, their walls stained with grime, their windows broken or boarded up. Neon signs flickered in the distance, promising cheap food, cheaper drugs, and even cheaper lives.
The wind pressed against Hikari's bare skin but the chill in his bones had little to do with the cold. Their words followed him, more or less annoying than they were hurtful.
Hikari rolled his shoulders, breath curling in the frigid air. Let them talk.
What do they know? Hikari thought, let them laugh. They could twist the truth into whatever shape pleased them—so long as they didn't attempt to blame his father.
He adjusted his collar, tucking his hands deeper into his pockets. He could ignore words. It was the other thing, Hikari couldn't even find a word for it—the presence swimming around in his skull, thick as tar—that wouldn't let go.
A laugh from earlier echoed once more in his head. They weren't afraid. But they should've been terrified.
Hikari himself was.
His boots scuffed against the pavement, steady and unhurried. He moved like someone with nowhere to be, nowhere that mattered.
But the weight in his chest said otherwise.
Block after block, he kept walking, long enough for the weather to strip feeling from his fingertips.
Still, his feet kept to the same path.
Toward the wall.
The prison stood at the edge of Sector 3, positioned for convenience—close enough for enforcers to move easily between the Inner Circle and the outer districts they were paid to police. A fortress of concrete and iron, jagged against the skyline.
Hikari passed through the checkpoint without letting his eyes wander. The officers on duty didn't look at him either. Too many visitors came and went for them to bother keeping track.
The inside smelled like rust, sweat, and simple dust. The halls were wide, built to handle the usual overcrowding.
He just kept walking.
By the time he reached the visitation room, the silence had thickened, pressing against his skin like the weight of something unspoken.
A row of chairs. A long thick sheet of glass.
Hikari sat, stretching his legs in front of him, fingers drumming lazily against the armrest. The chair was stiff, uncomfortable—not that he showed it.
He could already feel eyes on him. He was used to it by now.
A door groaned open.
Heavy boots scraped against the floor, slow and uneven.
Hikari didn't lift his gaze. Didn't need to.
The man on the other side of the glass sat down with careful movements, like he was trying not to wince. The cuffs around his wrists clinked softly. His jumpsuit hung loose on him, the fabric creased and worn.
The scar was new. It ran along his cheekbone, jagged and uneven, like it had been done in a hurry. It hadn't been there last month.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then, his father exhaled, rolling his shoulders. Smiling, like nothing was wrong. Like nothing ever was. "You look different."
Hikari smirked, resting his chin against his knuckles. "Good different or bad different?"
His father studied him with the same soft eyes, the kind that never hardened—not even in a place like this. "Just different."
Hikari let the words settle. Let his gaze flicker, just once, to the scar.
Then he tilted his head. "You too."
His father chuckled. "Yeah, well. You know how it is."
Hikari didn't respond. They both knew how it was.
His father shifted in his seat, hands resting lightly on the table, fingers curling and uncurling like he wasn't sure what to do with them. It was the same every time. Like he wanted to reach across the glass. Like he kept forgetting he couldn't.
Hikari leaned back, stretching his legs out even more. "So," he said, voice light, easy. "How's life?"
"Oh, you know. Food's great, company's even better."
"Yeah? They treating you like a king in here?"
His father chuckled again, the sound thin but real. "Something like that."
A beat of silence. Uncomfortable and heavy.
Then his father exhaled, voice softer. "You're still making these, huh?"
Hikari tilted his head. "You say that like I wouldn't."
"I don't expect you to." His father rubbed his thumb over his knuckles. "Not after everything."
"Doesn't matter."
His father gave him a long, quiet look. Hikari held it.
Then his father smiled again, shaking his head.
"What, you want me to stop coming?"
"Not a chance."
"Then stop talking like I will."
His father sighed, shoulders easing a little. The tension in the room didn't disappear, but it softened. Then he asked, careful but quiet, "How's your mother?"
The moment the words left his mouth, the weight slammed back down.
Hikari's fingers gripped the armrest. The smirk didn't drop, but something in his eyes turned sharp.
"She's great." His voice was easy, too easy. "Living it up. Big house, big garden, big bank account. Dream life, right?"
His father didn't take the bait. He just nodded, slow. "And you?"
Hikari scoffed, no longer meeting eye contact. "Oh, you know. Living in paradise."
His father studied him. Hikari didn't like that look. He always felt like his dad could see right through his facade.
"You can tell me the truth,"
"Right. Because honesty's worked out so well for us before."
His father's smile faded, just a little.
Hikari leaned back, looking away. "It's fine."
His father didn't push. He never did.
"Guess that's the best I'm getting."
"Smart man."
His father's fingers hovered near his teeth, lightly grazing the edge of a nail. "Hey," he said, casual but careful. "You still keeping up with the news?"
Hikari blinked. "The news?"
His father nodded. "The Eclipse. They're pulling names now, aren't they?"
Hikari's stomach twisted. He knew what his dad was really asking.
"…Yeah,"
"Figures."
"Why would you ask that? It's not like you're gonna do it, though." It wasn't a question.
His father hesitated.
Hikari sat up straighter. "Right?"
His father smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "If there's a way out, wouldn't you want me to take it?"
Hikari's chest tightened.
"But you're not even kynenn."
"I know."
Hikari stared at him, searching his face, looking for the part where he said it was a joke. That he wasn't actually going.
It never came.
His throat felt thick. "Then… then why would you—"
"It's the only chance they're giving me, kid." His father's voice was gentle. Too gentle. "You get that, don't you? It's not like i have much of a choice."
"That's stupid."
"Maybe."
"No, it is. It's—it's not fair. You shouldn't have to—"
"I know," his father said again. He pulled his hand away from his face, slow—like it took effort not to bite.
"YOU WOULDN'T EVEN BE HERE IF—"
Hikari's breath hitched. His pulse slammed in his ears.
The words almost came out.
If she didn't blame you. If she didn't make me go along with it. If I didn't—
His jaw locked. He couldn't say it. He almost had.
Too late.
People were looking now.
Guards. Other visitors. A couple prisoners near the back.
Hikari's face felt hot. He sucked in a breath, swallowing down everything pressing against his ribs.
His father leaned forward, voice steady. "Listen to me, okay?"
Hikari didn't answer, but his father continued anyway.
"I need you to be strong."
Hikari scowled. "I am strong."
His father smiled, warm and patient. "I know. But I mean here." He tapped his temple. "Not just here." He tapped his chest.
Hikari crossed his arms, looking away.
His father sighed, rubbing his knuckles absently. The guard was watching now, standing a little closer. Almost time.
"I'll be okay, kiddo," his father said.
Hikari squeezed his arms tighter. "Promise?"
His father's smile was small. "I'll try my best."
That wasn't a yes.
And they both knew it.