The air always smelled of rust and dirt in the Residential Zone. A thick, oily warmth clung to the metal walls and the lungs alike. Jyoti's feet made no sound as she moved, bare soles practiced against the broken terrain of walkways stitched from welded scraps, hollowed ducts, and rope-bridges made from old power lines.
Today was like most others: there was no sky, only pipes.
But today, there was also a mission. And missions made the world feel almost like it had direction.
She weaved through tight alleys, ducking under dangling wires and pushing past steam vents with practiced ease. Her eyes flicked upward as a patrolling brute passed on the upper grate, his baton swinging lazily like he wished someone would challenge him.
"Sorry to disappoint, ugly," Jyoti muttered under her breath. "I've danced around worse."
She hopped down into the shadows, blending into the mess of shadows, rust, and noise. The buildings groaned as the day's heat pressed in from the vents. Even the air seemed tired, the whole thing was gloomy to begin with but she was in her moment.
Her plan was simple— take what was needed and vanish before anyone noticed.
She passed a crowd gathered around a glitching projector screen, watching reruns of a synthetic myth-ritual about the Ashuras slaying demons made of desire and doubt. Nobody really watched anymore—they just sat there, half-hypnotized. It was one of the few places the brutes didn't swing their sticks, so people gathered like moths to a dead lightbulb.
She turned away.
The gate between housing blocks opened before her. Children screamed and scrambled. One hurled a rock at another over a stolen mouthful of tasteless synthetic meat. No one intervened. The loser got up and kept walking. No one had time for sorrow here.
This was home.
In Vakrayaan's district, everything belonged to someone who didn't earn it. The former priest turned Boss ruled the cluster like a despot, collecting tributes of meat, scrap, or bodies. His gang, the Ash-Binders, roamed the alleys with makeshift whips and scavenged stunrods. Families offered children for better rations; no one judged, because everyone had once been the offering or the offerer.
Jyoti avoided them all.
She had learned early on that invisibility was safer than rebellion. She could be among the crowd but never in it. She trained herself to move when no one watched and vanish before footsteps followed. She didn't fight over scraps—she took them before others noticed they were gone.
Today's target was the rear of the ration depot near the broken sun-lamp tower.
She ducked through a hidden vent shaft and emerged behind one of the dispensaries—fitted into a collapsed tram car turned storage point. One of Vakrayaan's men was nodding off beside the food locker, half-drugged, the synthetic haze still clinging to his throat. A perfect moment.
But Jyoti paused.
Inside, that strange sense again—that low, silent hum beneath her ribs when something important was near. A flicker of perception, like a thread tugging at her gut. She didn't know what it was, only that she'd always had it. As a child, when the others called her cursed, she would feel them before they came. She would disappear, and they'd find only dust where she stood.
Sometimes, her presence folded so completely that even the cameras seemed to ignore her.
Was it power? A mutation? Maya never gave it a name.
The old woman had once said: "A flame doesn't need a name to burn. It only needs to be kept from wind until it learns not to flicker."
Maya. Her presence still pressed against Jyoti like a second skin. She didn't care about her now.
And then there was the other mystery.
She had never once been summoned to the Faith Cathedral.
Every other child had. It was law. At ten cycles, they were called to recite the Five Ashuras' Litany, to kneel, to bleed a little, to belong. But Jyoti had never heard her name called. Not even once.
At first, she thought she'd been forgotten. But in the Pits, nothing is ever forgotten—only protected. And she knew Maya. That woman had moved like a myth even when she cooked soup.
Jyoti had long since stopped wondering. Some truths protect you only when left unopened.
She moved again.
The ration lock was held with a biometric clasp. She didn't bother trying it—she slipped around to the rear vent, pried it open with her fingers, and slid inside like shadow.
In that moment, she was not a child.
She was the whisper between footfalls.
She was the silence in a room full of alarm.
The inside of the ration vault was dark, cool, and smelled faintly of grease and iron filings. Rows upon rows of sealed boxes lined the rusted shelves—each packed with tasteless yet essential synthemeat and protein paste.
Jyoti's eyes lit up.
"Jackpot," she whispered with a grin, quickly snatching up as much as she could carry. She stuffed packets into her side pouch, her scarf, even under her shirt. "Finally, something that doesn't taste like recycled shoe."
Her voice echoed too long.
She froze.
A distant click. Then a hiss.
The vent behind her shut automatically. Locked. The walls of the ration room began to glow faintly red—an alarm she hadn't triggered before.
"No, no, no…"
She rushed to the sealed hatch, tried prying it open again—but it was deadlocked.
She was trapped.
For the first time that day, her heart beat loud enough to drown out her thoughts. Her breath hitched. There was no one outside who'd help her. No Maya. No myth. Just rusted steel and consequence.