Rustvale woke up angry.
The city always did. Sunlight barely made it past the smog, turning the morning into a dull copper haze. The magitech billboards that lined Main Spur blinked unevenly, as if even they couldn't be bothered to run at full power. Somewhere nearby, a generator coughed black smoke into the air.
Caz zipped up his worn jacket, tucking his hands deep into the pockets. The weight of his coin pouch was depressing — barely enough to cover food for the day, if he stretched it. Tessa's school fees were due next week. He didn't like thinking about that.
Work wasn't honest in Rustvale. You could break your back for a week hauling scrap and still make less than a thief in an hour. Caz took what he could get — repairing busted magitech devices in backroom workshops, running packages across gang-controlled blocks, lifting crates for shop owners who paid in leftovers instead of cash.
Today's first job was with Old Rener in a cramped workshop that stank of solder and singed wiring. The man didn't look up from the smoking chassis in front of him when Caz entered.
"Gearbox on the shelf," Rener grunted, sweat beading on his temple.
Caz moved through the mess like he'd done it a hundred times — because he had. He passed the older man tools, unscrewed housing plates, rewired control nodes. By the time they were done, his fingertips were raw from the heat.
Rener slid him three coins across the bench. "Don't get stabbed on the way home."
Caz pocketed them without a word.
The streets between jobs were always the dangerous part.
Rustvale's gangs didn't need a reason to bleed you — but they liked having one. The Rat Knives were the worst. Lean men with too much nervous energy, always moving, twitching. They carried curved blades tucked into their belts like extensions of their own hands.
They caught him outside a food stall on Silv Lane.
"Protection fee's due," the leader said, a thin man with eyes like wet glass. His smile was too wide, showing a gold tooth. "You been working. We seen it. Time to pay."
Caz didn't slow his stride. "I paid last week."
"That was last week." The man's hand landed on his shoulder, fingers curling just enough to suggest a knife wasn't far behind.
Caz measured him with a glance. Three others behind him. Too public for them to go all the way, but they could still make a scene.
"I'll get you when I've got it," Caz said, stepping sideways, forcing the man's grip to slide off.
The Rat Knife's grin flickered, but he let him pass.
For now.
That night, the apartment smelled faintly of boiled noodles. Tessa sat cross-legged at the table, bent over her books. Her dark hair was tied up messily, pen tapping against the page. She didn't look up when he came in.
"You're late," she said, but her voice didn't hold any accusation.
"Work," Caz replied, hanging his jacket. "Eat yet?"
"Waiting for you."
She pushed the pot toward him. The noodles were watery, seasoned with nothing but a pinch of salt, but it was hot. He ate without complaint.
"You'll be late tomorrow too?" she asked after a while.
"Probably."
She didn't press. She never did. But the question stayed in the air between them like smoke.
Caz looked at her — too thin, shoulders hunched over her work — and told her the same lie he'd told himself a thousand times.
"One day, Tess," he said quietly. "We'll leave this place."