The gray, lifeless sky loomed over the battered metropolis like a shroud of apathy. Cold rain pattered steadily onto fractured pavement, slipping down gutters choked with old paper, rusted metal, and the slow decay of a city long past salvation. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled slowly, ominously.
On a splintered bench near the edge of District 7's market zone sat a boy, still and hollow. His coat was several sizes too large, the fabric frayed at the sleeves and soaked through. His jeans were stiff with mud and grime.
His name was Gray.
Pale skin stretched over a thin frame that hadn't known a proper meal in weeks. Blue shadows clung to the undersides of his eyes like ink stains, and despite the zipped-up jacket, he trembled under the cold.
He didn't mind.
What bothered him more was the silence inside.
People passed him without pause. A few gave him sideways glances, others made subtle faces of disgust, but their own clothes were ragged, their shoes patched or mismatched. The difference between them and Gray was only that he had stopped pretending things would get better.
In the near distance, the market district flickered with dull yellow light. Iron lamps buzzed like fireflies over crooked stalls. Children ,scavengers, pickpockets hovered around the vendors like vultures in training. Waiting. Watching.
A pathetic life.
But one Gray understood better than anyone.
He pulled his hood tighter as a harsh voice echoed through the city, slicing through the rain.
"Attention! Curfew remains at the third bell. I repeat, curfew remains at the third bell. Unauthorized movement beyond designated zones will be met with force."
The voice rang like metal on bone, impersonal and exact. Around him, people flinched, plugging their ears out of habit. Gray didn't react.
His thoughts were elsewhere.
Was it worth it?
Living, that is.
He was turning eighteen this year. Legally an adult , not that it meant anything in a place like this. He'd seen more friends disappear than he could count. Betrayed by people he'd trusted, abandoned by those who owed him nothing. No family. No safety. Just a slow descent into deeper, colder days.
And yet... he kept walking.
He didn't know why. It wasn't hope. That had died long ago.
Maybe it was stubbornness. Maybe it was spite.
Maybe he was still waiting to prove something, to himself, to the world, or to whatever higher power let him be born into this.
He coughed twice, wet and sharp. The cold bit harder.
Then, a presence.
Someone sat beside him.
Gray blinked. He hadn't heard anyone approach.
The man was tall, well-built, and far too clean for this district. A tailored black coat clung to his frame, dripping faintly from the rain. His skin was porcelain pale, like bleached marble. His hair slicked neatly to the side, untouched by the filth in the air. His features were sharp, not rugged, but deliberate, like something carved rather than born.
He didn't speak.
He simply stared at the street, legs crossed, holding a sleek black briefcase in one hand.
Gray's instincts twitched. His first thought like every stray in this district was: Can I rob him?
But that thought died the moment the man adjusted his sleeve, revealing a pulsing blue holographic watch wrapped around his wrist.
The device flickered with symbols Gray couldn't understand. A language not meant for people like him. The man tapped the surface once, and the watch projected a floating interface in the air: circular glyphs rotating in tight, synchronized patterns.
Gray stared.
It was beautiful. Not just the glow, but what it meant. Status. Power. Access.
Then, he saw the tattoo.
At first, it looked like ink smeared by water. But it shifted. Twisted. One moment it was an eye. Then a snake. Then a star with no center.
Gray's heart skipped.
I've heard about those...
A moving tattoo marked someone bound to a higher agency. People with those marks weren't just dangerous. They were untouchable.
Gray froze.
"Hey, kid," the man said, voice smooth like silk dragged over broken glass.
Gray looked at him, blinking in surprise. His lips moved silently: Me?
"Yes, you," the man replied, his fake smile plastered over his face was like a sword waiting to be unsheathed.
Gray hesitated, then nodded slowly. "Y-yeah, si-"
"What's your name?"
Another pause.
Around here, most people didn't have names, not officially. At the age of ten, orphans often named themselves. It was a kind of ritual.
His name was boring. Gray. Like the sky. Like everything else.
But it fit.
"Gray. My name is Gray."
The man didn't flinch at the name, didn't comment. He just smiled again, this time wider.
"Gray, my friend. Say… would you be up for some work?"
Gray blinked.
A job offer? Out here?
That kind of thing didn't happen. Not without conditions.
He quickly noticed something was off. Why would he offer him a job at first sight and why did he come to these slums for a job offering.
His stomach twisted.
He didn't know what kind of job this man was offering, but something told him it would change everything.
And not necessarily for the better.