The sound of stone grinding against each other echoed through the workshop.
An earthbender crouched stood inside a hole, shaping the earth around him, with practiced movement, digging out shapes rock and dirt out of it to make a room just below the workshop. Dust rose from the hole, floating, dirtying the surrounding.
Jinyong stood nearby, coat draped over his arm. He watched the earth shift and fall, the bender carving out an underground just as he'd been paid to.
"Almost done, sir," the man said, breathing heavily, looking up to the entrance of the hole where Jinyong stood. "Another half hour, maybe."
"Take your time," Jinyong replied.
The man nodded, hands never stopping. The floor moved like landslides beneath his gestures.
Jinyong's jaw tightened slightly.
Effortless.
He could make guns, cars, machines that flew, but he could never move stone with his hands. He wondered what it would be like to work those dirt without tools. Without machines. He thought about the thousands of non-benders across the city, who don't have the same as him nor the bender. How they are just trying to make ends meet, with the little jobs that they can qualify in compared to a bender.
If he wasn't a Keum, would he even make due in this world?
He glanced back at the bender, who didn't even seem tired. Just focused.
"Good work," Jinyong said finally. "That'll be enough for today."
The man wiped his hands on his pants, bowed once, climbed out of the hole, and left through the side door.
Silence filled the room again. The underground room mouth yawned open on the floor.
Jinyong crouched by it, watching the faint light disappear into shadow. A secret room. Or at least the start of it.
Then he stood up, wore his coat, and left.
—
Outside, winter hit like a slap.
The wind cut through his clothes. Snow drifted down in slow flakes, landing on his satomobile's hood. He brushed them off, climbed in, and started the engine.
The headlights cut a pale line through the snow. He didn't know where he wanted to go, he just needed to think.
The car rolled down the streets, tires hissing on frozen slush.
Factories smoked in the distance, chimneys rising like black towers. The further he drove, the dimmer the lights became.
He knew this direction.
Dragon Flats Borough.
—
The borough sat beneath the city like a half-forgotten limb.
Not broken, just neglected.
Buildings were old but sturdy. Roads were cracked but cleared. The streetlamps flickered faintly, buzzing with half-dead energy.
And yet, everything worked somehow.
He parked near a noodle stand. The sign hung crooked, the paper lanterns burned low. The smell of broth drifted out, warm and salty, and it made him hungry.
The old man behind the counter looked up when Jinyong approached. His face was worn, but his eyes were clear.
"Cold night," the vendor said.
"Yeah," Jinyong replied, pulling his gloves off. "One bowl, please."
The man nodded and turned to the pot. Steam hissed and rose, carrying the scent of soy and ginger.
Jinyong sat on the stool. Around him, the street was quiet. Only a few people passed, bundled in thick coats, heads down against the cold.
"Don't see fancy coats like yours around here often," the vendor said, ladling noodles into a bowl. "Especially on a kid."
"Just passing through," Jinyong said. "Saw your stand and got hungry."
"Passing through, huh?" The man smiled faintly, setting the bowl in front of him. "People don't 'pass through' Dragon Flats."
Jinyong picked up the chopsticks. The broth was hot, the noodles chewy. For a while, neither spoke.
Finally, he asked, "How do people live here?"
The man gave him a long look. "Same way everyone does. One day at a time."
"I mean… the city doesn't seem to care much."
The vendor snorted. "Care? The city doesn't even remember this place exists. We're south of Green Meadows, right by the river. Too flood-prone. Too poor. Too many non-benders. After that big storm years ago, the water nearly swallowed the whole borough. City patched a few roofs and left the rest to rot. Guess who rebuilt it?"
Jinyong blinked. "The triads."
"Exactly." The man pointed at the flickering lamp above. "That light? They fixed it. They paid for the wiring, too. The pipes underground? They handled those. Even the clinic across the street. City never sent a single engineer."
He poured more broth into Jinyong's bowl. "They call this place a slum, but it's not. Not really. The buildings are solid, the people work hard. Most of us came here for cheap rent, good neighbors, and jobs in the factories uptown. Migrants too—Fire Nation, Earth Kingdom, Water Tribe. You name it, they've got a corner here."
Jinyong looked around. "And mostly non-benders?"
"Yeah," the man said. "Almost all. You won't see many bending tricks down here except ones that are hired by the triads. We do things the hard way. We dig with shovels, not earthbending. We carry water, we don't pull it from the air. Makes life slower. Harder. But at least it's ours."
A gust of cold air swept through the stall. Snowflakes hissed against the hot pot. The vendor continued. "You see, the triads… they're not just gangs here. They're the reason the borough still breathes. They pay the workers, fix the roads, even give out coal during winter. Sure, they take their cut, but so does everyone else. Without them, the lights would've gone out long ago."
Jinyong's gaze dropped to his bowl. "Doesn't that bother you? That criminals are the ones keeping things alive?"
The old man chuckled dryly. "Kid, when you're cold and hungry, you stop caring who hands you the blanket. The triads filled the hole the city left. They protect us when the police don't come. They punish thieves when the law looks away. They're cruel, but they're consistent. And people here? We take what we can get."
A few men in long coats walked by. One of them nodded at the vendor, and the vendor nodded back. Jinyong caught a glimpse of a small tattoo on the man's wrist. a triad mark.
"Most folks here don't even hate them anymore," the vendor said. "Some joined them. Safer that way. Pays better than the factories. At least you know who's really running the borough."
"So people choose them," Jinyong murmured.
"Some do," the man said, shrugging. "Others stopped choosing at all."
They stayed quiet for a while. The broth warmed his hands. The snow fell harder.
Then the man spoke again, almost to himself. "Used to be, people here hoped for the city to notice. Maybe build new roads, fix the floods, send proper patrols. But after years of waiting, we realized hope doesn't fix broken roofs. So we fixed them ourselves. Or the triads did, for a price."
He wiped his hands on a rag. "Still, it's not all bad. You'll find good folks here. Families. Kids who still laugh even when the heat and electricity goes out. We're poor, yeah. But not hopeless."
Jinyong finished his bowl and set it down. "How much?"
"Five yuans."
He placed ten on the counter. "Keep the change."
The old man smiled faintly. "You're not from here."
"No," Jinyong said, standing. "But maybe one day, I'll make sure this place doesn't stay forgotten."
The vendor raised an eyebrow. "Big words for a fancy kid."
"Maybe," Jinyong said, pulling on his gloves. "But someone's got to mean them."
He paused, glancing toward his satomobile. "Can you keep an eye on my car for a bit? I'll pay. Just want to walk around."
"I don't mind," the man said. "But don't go far. The triads keep order, but they don't like strangers. Especially ones who stand out."
"I'll be fine," Jinyong said quietly. "Thank you, sir."
"Walk where the lights are still turned on," the vendor said. "The dark corners here don't forgive."
Jinyong nodded once, then stepped out into the falling snow.
—
The wind was harsher now. The snow is thicker. It muffled everything, the street, the voices, even his thoughts.
He walked with his hands in his coat pockets, the collar pulled high. The lamps buzzed weakly above, their light bending through the snow.
A man shoveled snow off a stoop with a cracked shovel. Two kids chased each other past him, laughing through the cold. The air smelled faintly of coal smoke.
He stopped for a moment, watching. The laughter, the shoveling, the smoke.
He crossed the street. A row of laundry lines hung between windows, frozen stiff.
Everywhere he looked, people worked. Fixing doors. Clearing paths. Carrying buckets. No one wasted any time.
He thought about what the vendor said, that the triads ran things now. That the city had stopped caring.
And yet, the borough kept breathing.
Not clean. Not fair. But alive.
He turned into an alley.
—
Three men stepped out from the shadows. Triad tattoos on their necks, cheap cigarettes in their hands.
"Evening, rich boy," one said, smirking. "Bit far from the nice side of town, aren't you?"
Jinyong stopped, eyes calm. "Just walking."
The second laughed. "Walking, huh? Must be lost."
The first one flicked his cigarette away and stepped forward. "Wallet."
Jinyong sighed softly. "You don't want to do that."
"Yeah?" The man grabbed his sleeve.
He moved before the next word came out: fast, precise, quiet. A twist, a strike, a trip. The man hit the ground with a thud.
The second swung wildly. Jinyong ducked and shoved his palm into the guy's chest, sending him back into the wall.
The third froze.
Jinyong looked at him, snow still falling between them. "Walk away."
The man hesitated, then ran, leaving only the wheeze of the man he'd just dropped.
The other one was still groaning near the wall, half-buried in white. Jinyong crouched beside him, breath steady.
"Who do you work for? Triad?"
The man spat, then winced. "What's it to you?"
"Curious," Jinyong said.
The man just glared at him.
"Hard not to notice the tattoos."
The man huffed out a bitter laugh. "Yeah. We keep the streets clean, fix the pipes, break the skulls that need breaking. Somebody's gotta do it since the police don't."
Jinyong tilted his head slightly. "And you get paid for it."
"Of course we do. People pay for safety. We make sure the lights stay on. We even keep the Equalists out. As far as we can at least."
That last word caught him.
He leaned in a little. "Equalists, huh. You hate them?"
The man frowned. "Hate's a strong word."
"Then what word would you use?"
The man hesitated. "They got ideas. Some of 'em even make sense. Benders push us around, the city doesn't care. But the Equalists? They don't just talk. They blow things up, blow us up mostly, triads. They ruin lives. Makes it worse for everyone."
"So you think they started right but went wrong."
"Yeah. Maybe if they stopped picking fights, maybe if they built something instead of tearing it all down, maybe people would've listened."
Jinyong nodded slowly, snow settling on his hair. "Makes sense."
The man squinted at him. "Why're you asking this, kid? You writing a paper or something?"
"Something like that," Jinyong said. "You said people pay for safety. What if someone wanted a few men, good ones, on payroll? Not for crime. For work. Guard duty. Or something similar."
The man gave him a suspicious look. "Are you trying to hire muscle?"
"Hypothetically."
"Depends who's asking."
"Someone with money," Jinyong said.
The man snorted, half amused, half wary. "You talk like you've never been hungry. Of course you have money."
The man studied him for a moment. "You could talk to our boss if you want real help. They don't like outsiders, though. Especially not rich ones."
"I'll keep that in mind."
He stood, brushing the snow from his coat. "You should get that checked. Might've cracked a rib."
The man grumbled something that sounded like a curse. Jinyong turned and walked away, the sound of his footsteps fading under the snow.
Behind him, the man muttered to himself, "Rich kid's gonna get himself killed."
Jinyong didn't look back. The cold bit at his cheeks.
—
He found himself near the canal bridge later.
The water was frozen black under the snow. The lamps buzzed faintly, struggling against the dark.
He leaned on the railing, looking out over the ice.
The city's skyline shimmered faintly in the distance, bright, untouched, watching.
Down here, everything was smaller, colder.
The cold gnawed at his hands, but he barely felt it. His breath came out white.
He thought about the man in the alley. The way he said some of the Equalists' ideas made sense. The way his voice cracked a little when he said benders push us around, and the city doesn't care.
Jinyong had heard words like that before. In history books. From those orators of the equalists. Hell, he even said it himself, but that came from the mouth of a privileged boy.
But hearing it here, in the falling snow, from someone with cracked knuckles and hungry eyes, it felt different.
More real.
He looked down at the frozen canal. Beneath all that ice, the water was still moving. Trapped, but flowing.
Like the people here.
He exhaled, slow.
If he hadn't been born into money, would he have ended up here too?
Working the factories. Begging the triads for safety and a chance to make products that could sell. Waiting for a system that never cared to change.
He closed his eyes for a second.
He didn't hate benders. He didn't hate anyone, really. But he could see the tilt of the world, the way everything leaned toward power, toward bending.
And people like him, the powerless, the bending-less, had to crawl uphill just to breathe.
Maybe the Equalists saw that. Maybe they tried to fix it the wrong way. Maybe they were too desperate, too angry, too broken to wait for a better answer. Nah, the equalist is commanded by a bender, a hypocrite, a manipulator.
But he could wait.
He had time.
And money.
And the mind to build something new.
Something better.
He opened his eyes again. The wind carried a few flakes across his face.
The city lights glittered against the snow like distant stars.
He didn't plan to save the world. That wasn't his story.
But maybe—just maybe—he could change this place.
This city.
This borough.
Make sure that people like the man in the alley, like the kids throwing snowballs in the street, wouldn't have to feel like they are lesser to anyone again.
Not the city.
Not the triads.
Not the benders.
He pushed off the railing. His boots crunched against the ice-covered bridge.
The snow had already started to cover his tracks from before, erasing where he'd been.
He smiled faintly.
Maybe that was fine.
He just needed to start.
Jinyong turned toward the streets again, toward the faint glow of the noodle stand in the distance, and began walking back through the snow.
Each step is quiet.
Each step is deliberate.
The world might not know it yet.
But down here, in the cold, he began to gather his resolve.