The day they tell me I'm leaving, nobody says the word "abandoned."
They use nicer ones.
"Reallocated.""Transitioned.""Priority shift."
We're all called into the hall after breakfast. That's never good. The tables are pushed aside. Kids are sorted into clumps by age, like badly organized laundry.
Sister stands at the front with a man from the city. I recognize him. Clipboard. Thin hair slicked back like it's trying to escape. Neutral face that says, I'm already tired of this.
He taps the board with his pen.
"As you know," he starts, "the city's budget is under pressure this year."
Of course it is. It always is.
"We've had to make adjustments," he continues. "The priority is to ensure the youngest children are properly cared for."
Translation: older kids are too expensive.
He looks at the group of teens. "Those of you thirteen and fourteen," he says, "will be placed into work or training as soon as appropriate. The cooperation with local businesses continues."
The older kids shift, some nervous, some trying to look cool. Nothing new for them.
Then his eyes slide over to my group.
"And," he adds, "in special cases, children who show a high degree of independence and already have stable work relations may be transitioned to youth housing earlier than usual."
I feel that line land on my head like a brick.
Sister's mouth tightens. She knew this was coming.
"Staff will speak to you individually if you are affected," the man says. "No one will be left without housing. You'll have support and supervision in the youth system."
I'd trust that more if he didn't sound like he was reading a manual.
Kids start whispering as soon as he finishes. Fear, curiosity, gossip. The usual.
Daro elbows me. "Think they'll throw me out?" he asks.
"You?" I say. "You barely remember which way your shoes go. They'll chain you here until you're twenty."
He snorts. "What about you?"
"No idea," I say. "But his eyes definitely lingered on the 'independent' group."
"You mean the 'annoyingly responsible' group," Daro says.
"Same thing," I say.
Sister claps for silence, says something about "no one leaving immediately" and "individual talks," and dismisses us.
As everyone spills out, she catches my eye.
"Ryu," she says. "Office. Now."
Naturally.
Her office is cramped with papers, folders, and the physical form of stress. She sits behind the desk. I sit in the chair opposite. We've done this dance before for smaller things.
This isn't a small thing.
"You understand what the official was talking about?" she asks.
"Budget cuts," I say. "Prioritize small cute children. Push out the ones who can legally walk without falling over."
"Blunt," she says. "Accurate."
She folds her hands.
"You're on their list," she says.
I knew it. It still hits like a punch.
"Because I work?" I ask.
"Because you work," she says. "Because you don't start fires. Because Haim submitted an official note to the city confirming you're a reliable helper."
"Snitch," I say quietly, without heat.
"They looked at the records," she goes on. "You're eight, nearly nine. You earn wages. You understand basic money and rent. Their conclusion is that you're 'transition-ready.'"
"Nice phrase for 'we don't want to pay for you anymore,'" I say.
She doesn't argue.
"How long do I have?" I ask.
"Three months," she says. "Maybe four, if the paperwork is slow."
"Bureaucracy finally doing something useful," I say.
"You'll move to youth housing," she continues. "You won't be on the street. It's a supervised building. You'll have a bed and a locker. You'll pay rent. You'll still be able to eat here sometimes, if you come up and don't cause chaos."
"So I go from 'charity case' to 'cheap tenant,'" I say.
"Something like that," she says.
We sit in silence for a few seconds.
"I argued," she says finally. "You're young. I told them it would be better to wait until at least ten. They pointed at the numbers. Then at the kids who don't have jobs, who fight, who steal. They said, 'If someone has to go early, it should be one who can handle it.'"
It's hard to call that unfair without sounding like I want them to pick someone weaker instead.
"Right," I say. My voice feels stiff. "So I get to be the responsible sacrifice."
"You get to be the one they can't push around completely," she says. "You have a job. You have savings. You have a brain. That matters out there."
"What about papers?" I ask. "ID. Registration. Are we doing that properly or am I going to technically not exist?"
"You'll get official documents," she says. "We're taking you to the city office next week. They'll register you as an independent youth resident. You'll get a temporary ID and later a card."
"Real citizen," I say. "I'm moving up in the world."
"You'll also get a small transition stipend," she says. "One-time payment. Not much. But if you add it to your savings, you'll have a buffer."
"Good," I say. "I like buffers. Buffers keep you from sleeping under bridges."
She leans back, watching me.
"You're taking this… calmly," she says.
"I'm not calm," I say. "I just knew this was coming. Maybe not now, but eventually. Better I get pushed now, while I'm in decent shape, than later when I've gone soft."
"You are many things," she says. "Soft is not one of them."
I manage a small smile.
"Is there a way to say no?" I ask. "Hypothetically."
"Not without cutting food from someone smaller," she says. "And they'd cut our funding anyway. We'd keep you by squeezing somewhere else. I won't do that."
"Then there's no choice," I say.
"There's choice in how you use the time you have," she says. "Three months is not long. But it's enough to get ready."
"More lectures?" I ask. "More contracts? More examples of how not to get scammed?"
"Yes," she says. "And more conversations with Haim. He needs to understand you'll rely on that job for rent now, not just snacks."
"He'll love that," I say.
"He cares more than he pretends," she says.
"That's everyone in this city," I say. "Except the budget office."
She huffs once.
"Ryu," she says. "Leaving here early doesn't mean we stop existing for you. You can still come by. You can still ask for help."
"I know," I say. "But it does mean I stop being your problem on paper."
She doesn't deny that.
"Go," she says quietly. "Think. Don't panic. Not yet, anyway."
"Panic is scheduled for next week," I say, standing. "I'll write it in."
In the corridor, Daro is waiting.
He leans against the wall trying to look casual and failing.
"Well?" he asks.
"They've decided I'm an adult," I say. "At nine."
His eyes widen. "You're leaving?"
"In a few months," I say. "Youth housing. Rent. Supervisors. No free porridge."
He stares at me, then looks away at the window.
"Lucky," he says finally.
"Define lucky," I say.
"You get out," he says. "You'll be… in the real city. Living like an actual person."
"An actual very broke, very small person," I say. "With bills."
"You always wanted to leave," he says.
"Yeah," I say. "But I wanted to do it on my terms. Not because someone drew a line through my name on a budget sheet."
He shrugs. "End result's the same, right?"
"Not really," I say. "But it's close enough that I'll take it."
He's quiet for a moment.
"You'll still come back, right?" he asks. "Visit. Laugh at us drowning in porridge."
"Of course," I say. "If I vanish completely, who's going to make fun of your handwriting?"
He punches my arm lightly.
"You better not die out there," he says.
"I'd rather not," I say.
That night, I lie in bed staring at the cracked ceiling.
Three months.
That's all.
Three months until the safety net goes away. Such as it is.
Three months until my savings stop being "future dream money" and start being "rent and food money." Three months until my job at Haim's is no longer a bonus but a lifeline.
My brain does what it always does: starts breaking it down.
Current position:
Age: almost nine.
Health: decent. Strong for my size.
Work: semi-regular job at workshop.
Savings: enough for a few months of rent if I'm careful.
Support: Sister, Haim, the orphanage's reputation.
Incoming changes:
Youth housing: new rules, new danger, less protection.
Rent: fixed cost every month. Miss it, lose room.
Food: no guaranteed three meals.
Official status: independent youth.
It's terrifying.
It's also exactly what I need if I ever want to get anywhere near the Hunter Exam.
Hunters don't live in dorms run by nuns. They live out there. Accepting jobs. Managing risk. Paying for their own injuries.
If I can't even handle rent at nine, what am I doing dreaming about licenses and Nen?
I turn onto my side, facing the wall.
"So," I think. "New phase."
Up until now, everything has been "preparation for preparation." Training my body, learning the city, understanding how adults use and avoid rules.
Now it starts counting differently.
Every coin I earn. Every errand I run. Every connection I make.
Not just for "later," but for surviving the next year outside these walls.
The Hunter dream doesn't get closer just because I move out.
But the person who might become a Hunter? He gets a little more real.
And like it or not, that person has to start with youth housing, city officials, and boring rent contracts before he can stand in front of the Association and ask for their suicidal exam.
It's not romantic.
It's not fun.
It's the next step.
I close my eyes.
Tomorrow, I'll talk to Haim. I'll ask him straight how stable my job is. I'll count my savings again. I'll plan.
I don't have a choice about leaving.
But I get to choose whether I stumble out unprepared or walk out with my eyes open.