The rain had thinned to a drizzle, but the stench of rot still hung heavy over the narrow lanes. The boy moved through the slum's backstreets with his hood pulled low, a scrap of cloth tied around his mouth to dull the sour air.
Water dripped from the sagging roofs, running down the walls like the city itself was bleeding. Rats scurried through the puddles, fighting over the carcass of a cat.
He didn't look at them. He had no time to pity things that died hungry.
Rin's coughing still rang in his ears — the way her lips had gone pale that morning, the way her breath caught like a broken reed. The old healer had already given up on her. "Her life's fading. Even the gods wouldn't trade a coin for that soul," she'd said.
But there was a rumor.
A single whisper that refused to die.
A pill that could restore life. A pill nobles used to chase pleasure, but that could mend even a shattered body if taken whole — the Vitality Pill.
He'd laughed when he first heard it — a drunk's fantasy. But laughter didn't cure sickness, and hope was a cheap drug in the District. When the body fails, desperation makes believers of everyone.
That's what brought him here.
To Raven Alley.
The alley was a slit between two ruined inns, narrow enough to choke out the moonlight. It was the kind of place where thieves met their gods early. He stopped at the entrance, the cold wind brushing against his soaked cloak.
A figure leaned against the wall, smoking something bitter. The glow of the ember lit a crooked smile beneath a mask of dirt and scars.
The man said, voice rough, "You came after all."
He didn't answer right away. His throat was dry, words caught between fear and need. "You have it — the Vitality Pill?"
The man chuckled. "Vitality Pill? That's what they call it these days?"
"You think anyone just has a Vitality Pill? Boy, that thing's worth more than ten lives like yours."
"Then why call me here?"
"Because," the man said, dragging the last of his smoke and flicking it aside, "I've got a way to get one. And you've got what I need."
He tensed. "What do you want?"
The man's grin widened. His teeth were yellowed, like old bone. "Simple job. You sneak into the warehouse by the eastern wall. There's a box — black seal, gold markings. Bring it to me before dawn."
"That's it?"
"That's it."
He frowned. It couldn't be that simple. In the Red District, even breathing came with a cost. "And the pill?"
"If you pull it off," the man said, voice low, "I'll give you something better. The one who supplies these so-called pills — he's the supplier for the noblemen's pleasure dens. He's got a crate of Vitality Pills."
The boy's pulse quickened. For the first time in days, his chest didn't feel hollow.
But still, doubt gnawed at him. "Why don't you do it yourself?"
The man leaned close until their shadows merged. "Because I'm not small enough to slip through the walls, boy. You are. And because the guards don't notice rats."
The insult rolled off him. He'd been called worse.
"What's in the box?" he asked.
The man smirked. "You don't want to know."
A single drop of rain hit the boy's cheek. Cold. Heavy. Like a warning.
Still, he nodded. "Where will I find you after?"
"Here. Before dawn." The man turned away, fading into the mist. "Don't open the box. Don't look inside. And whatever happens — don't get caught."
---
He stayed there long after the man left.
The alley was silent again, except for the distant hum of the Red District — muffled laughter, clinking bottles, the moan of broken souls trying to forget.
He could turn back. Forget the rumor. Accept the world's cruelty as it was.
But when he closed his eyes, he saw Rin's face — pale, fading, waiting.
He clenched his fists until his nails dug into his skin.
He couldn't turn back.
---
By midnight, the streets were quieter. The watchmen had changed shifts; the drunks had already fallen into the gutter. He moved like a shadow, hood drawn, following the faint glow of lanterns until the outline of the eastern wall loomed ahead.
The warehouse sat by the edge of the district — a squat, two-story structure with iron-barred windows and a single wooden gate. A nobleman's crest had once been painted there, now half-eaten by mold.
He circled around to the back, keeping low. The smell of wet grain and rot filled the air. Rats scurried past his feet.
There — a broken section in the wall. Small enough for someone his size to slip through.
He hesitated once, then crawled inside.
The warehouse was darker than he expected. The only light came from the faint shimmer of oil lamps burning low near the front. Wooden crates were stacked high, casting long shadows. The air was thick with dust and something metallic — like old blood.
He crept forward, careful not to make a sound. Every step felt louder than thunder in his head.
After a few minutes of searching, he found it:
A small box on a table, black lacquer, sealed with gold markings — just as the man described. It looked too fine to belong here, like it had been stolen from a palace.
He reached for it, hands trembling.
Then — a creak.
He froze.
Voices.
Two men entered through the front gate, talking in low tones.
"Boss wants the shipment moved tonight," one said.
"Damn it, again? Thought he said next week."
"Plans changed. Keep your mouth shut and carry it. We can't afford any eyes on this stuff."
He held his breath, crouched behind the crates. The footsteps grew louder, closer. One of them lit a lamp — and the faint glow washed over the room.
The black box gleamed.
"Hey," one of them muttered. "Wasn't that box supposed to be sealed in the other room?"
"Yeah… wait. Who's there?"
The boy's heart stopped.
He grabbed the box and ran.
Shouts erupted behind him. The warehouse echoed with chaos. Footsteps thundered as guards gave chase. He darted between crates, leapt over barrels, crashed through the broken section of the wall.
Rain hit his face as he landed hard, rolling onto the muddy ground. Pain shot up his arm, but he didn't stop. He ran — through puddles, through filth, through the screaming streets — until his lungs burned and his vision blurred.
---
The rain hadn't stopped in two nights. It came down in thin, silver threads, soaking the alleys until the mud swallowed footsteps whole.
In the Red District, that was a blessing. Mud hid blood better than stone.
The boy moved fast through the shadows, his cloak clinging to his shoulders, breath sharp and short.
He'd done the impossible — slipped past the guards, lifted the black-sealed box, and fled before the dogs caught his scent.
He didn't know what was inside. He didn't want to. The man in the alley had said one thing: "Don't look."
He wasn't stupid enough to ask why.
But now, the deal had gone wrong.
The meeting point — Raven Alley — was crawling with men in dark coats and rusted blades. He saw their torches flicker through the mist as they turned the slum upside down. Kareth's men.
The underworld boss didn't forgive thieves.
He pressed his back against a crumbling wall, chest heaving. Water dripped from his hair into his eyes. Every breath felt too loud. Every heartbeat, too heavy.
"Find the rat!" someone shouted. "Boss said alive if possible. Dead's fine too!"
The boy's pulse raced. His fingers tightened around the wrapped box. He ducked into a side path, leapt over a half-collapsed fence, and slid down a slope that reeked of sewage.
The city's filth embraced him like an old friend.
He crouched in the drainage tunnel until his lungs burned from the stench. The echo of footsteps passed above. Then silence. Only the hum of rain and the distant sound of boots sloshing through puddles.
He waited there until dawn began to creep through the cracks.
When he finally crawled out, the streets were still. The world looked washed out, gray and tired — like a corpse that hadn't realized it was dead.
He didn't return to the alley. He didn't even dare move toward it.
He just walked — anywhere, nowhere — until exhaustion dulled the fear.
---
By midday, whispers started.
In the bread line near the burnt chapel, a beggar whispered to another, "They say someone stole from Kareth's vault."
The other spat on the ground. "No one steals from him."
"Three bodies dropped dead last night. Boss is furious."
The boy's hands froze mid-motion. His hood cast a long shadow across his face.
"Boss is losing his mind," someone else muttered. "Said the thief took a black box. The one with the seal. Whatever was in there wasn't meant for the hands of rats."
A chill slid down the boy's spine. He turned away before anyone noticed the tremor in his step.
By evening, the entire slum was buzzing with it.
Kareth had sent word — find the rat, dead or alive.
A price was placed, small but tempting enough to turn neighbors into hunters.
The boy stayed low. He found a corner in an abandoned inn, half-buried under broken beams, and hid there as night fell again.
He hadn't even looked at the box since. But every time he closed his eyes, he swore he could feel it — faint warmth, pulsing against his chest like a second heartbeat.
---
Elsewhere, across the market district, an old man paused by a teahouse window. His robe was plain, but the way people unconsciously moved aside for him spoke of quiet power.
A merchant was gossiping nearby. "A boy, they say. Small, fast. Stole something from Kareth himself."
The old man sipped his tea, gaze distant. "An iron box, sealed with wax?"
The merchant blinked. "You've heard of it?"
A faint smile ghosted across the old man's lips. "Perhaps." He placed a few coins on the counter, rose, and walked toward the direction of the slums. "Curious things tend to find curious people."
---
That night, the rain returned — slow, steady, whispering through broken roofs.
The boy sat alone on a rooftop overlooking the ruined streets. His legs hung over the edge, bare feet muddy, stomach hollow.
Below, drunks laughed, women screamed, and thieves sold dreams they couldn't afford.
This was home.
This was hell.
He pulled the box from his cloak. Curiosity got the best of him. He tried to open it. The seal was cracked, but not broken. Gold wax lines shimmered faintly under the moonlight.
He turned it over in his hands.
No markings. No sound. Only that faint, unnatural warmth.
He whispered, "What are you?"
No answer. Just rain.
Then, faintly — a pulse. Once. Soft but alive.
His eyes widened.
He almost dropped it.
The warmth spread through his palms, sinking into his skin like something breathing beneath the surface.
He flinched and shoved it back into his satchel, heart racing.
The rain thickened, drowning the sound of his ragged breath.
Far below, someone screamed — a guttural, choking sound — before the city swallowed it whole.
The boy didn't move. He just sat there, staring at the box.
---