The rusted chain-link fence rattled as Kota hauled himself over it, his worn boots finding purchase on the corroded metal. Below him, the abandoned warehouse district stretched out like a graveyard of the old world—concrete husks and shattered glass glinting in the pale morning light. Somewhere in that maze of decay was breakfast, if he was lucky. If he was smart.
He dropped to the cracked pavement with practiced silence, knees absorbing the impact. Six years of scavenging had taught him how to land without sound, how to move through the ruins like smoke. The skills had kept him alive when his parents couldn't.
The air tasted of rust and distant smoke. Always smoke, out here in Okala. The outskirts burned slow and constant, like the world itself was dying by degrees.
Kota adjusted the frayed strap of his salvage bag and moved deeper into the warehouse district. His eyes swept the shadows automatically, cataloging threats. Broken glass at two o'clock—avoid. Collapsed wall section ahead—potential creature den. Dark stain on the concrete that might be old blood or might be fresh.
He was looking for wire. Copper, specifically. Aisha's father had mentioned needing it for a repair job, and copper meant credits. Credits meant food that didn't come from dumpsters or the charity line.
The first warehouse was a bust—already picked clean by other scavengers. The second had a pack of razorbacks nesting in the corner, their chitinous bodies clicking softly as they slept. Kota backed away slowly, hand on the rusted pipe he kept strapped to his thigh. Razorbacks were low-tier creatures, barely dangerous if you knew what you were doing, but their screech could attract worse things. Much worse.
The third warehouse had what he needed.
Kota's heart quickened as he spotted the tangle of electrical conduit hanging from the ceiling, copper wire visible through the cracked insulation. It was high up, maybe fifteen feet, but the support beams looked stable enough. Probably.
He tested the first beam with his weight, feeling for rot. It held. He climbed carefully, each movement deliberate. Below him, the warehouse floor was littered with debris and dark puddles that reflected nothing. The kind of puddles that sometimes rippled when nothing touched them.
Don't think about it. Just climb.
His fingers closed around the wire, and he began working it free with the small blade he kept in his boot. The copper came away in satisfying coils, heavy and valuable. He was stuffing the third coil into his bag when he heard it.
A low, wet breathing sound.
Kota froze. His eyes tracked to the far corner of the warehouse, where the shadows seemed to pulse and writhe. Something was there. Something big enough that its breathing echoed off the walls.
He didn't wait to see what it was.
Kota dropped from the beam, hitting the ground hard and rolling. Pain shot through his shoulder, but he was already running, bag clutched tight against his chest. Behind him, the breathing became a roar—a sound like tearing metal and screaming wind.
He burst through the warehouse door as something massive slammed into the wall behind him. The entire structure shuddered. Kota didn't look back. He ran through the maze of ruins, taking turns at random, until his lungs burned and his legs threatened to give out.
Finally, he collapsed behind a rusted shipping container, gasping. His hands shook as he checked his bag. The copper was still there. All of it.
Worth it, he told himself, even as his heart hammered against his ribs. Always worth it.
By the time Kota made it back to the residential section of Okala, the sun had climbed higher, burning off the morning haze. The outskirts looked almost peaceful in the daylight—if you ignored the reinforced walls, the guard towers, and the dark stains on the pavement that never quite washed away.
He found Aisha where he always found her: in the community garden behind the housing blocks, coaxing life from soil that had no business growing anything.
"You're late," she said without looking up. Her hands were buried in the dirt, dark soil caked under her fingernails. "I was starting to think a duskwraith got you."
"Just a warehouse crawler. Maybe. Didn't stick around to check."
Now she looked up, her dark eyes sharp with concern. "Kota—"
"I'm fine." He dropped the bag at her feet. "Got the copper your dad needed. Three good coils."
Aisha wiped her hands on her already-filthy pants and opened the bag. Her expression softened. "He's going to be thrilled. The Hendersons' water heater has been out for a week." She paused, studying his face. "You sure you're okay? You look like you ran the whole way back."
"Maybe I did." Kota allowed himself a small smile. "Maybe I just wanted to see you."
She snorted and threw a clod of dirt at him. He dodged, grinning. This was familiar. This was safe. Aisha had been the first person to talk to him after his parents died, back when he was still feral with grief and rage. She'd shared her lunch with him without asking questions, and somehow that simple act had cracked something open inside him.
"Mom's making stew tonight," Aisha said, returning to her plants. "You're coming. Don't even try to say no."
"I wasn't going to."
"Good." She glanced at him sidelong. "Two weeks, Kota."
He didn't need to ask what she meant. Two weeks until his fourteenth birthday. Two weeks until he entered the age range where awakening could happen at any moment—or never at all.
The awakening system was supposed to be humanity's salvation. Between the ages of thirteen and twenty, every person had the chance to manifest a blessing—supernatural powers drawn from somewhere deep in the human psyche. Strength, speed, elemental control, healing. The blessed were the only reason humanity still held half the world.
But the system didn't care about fairness. Some people awakened to incredible power. Others got minor abilities barely worth mentioning. And some—maybe one in fifty—died screaming as their minds shattered under the weight of their own blessing.
Kota had watched it happen once, three years ago. A boy named Marcus, seventeen, who'd started convulsing in the middle of the street. Blood had poured from his eyes and ears as something inside him broke. The guards had put him down before the transformation completed, before he could become something worse than the creatures that hunted them.
No one knew when it would happen. Some awakened the day they turned thirteen. Others went years before their blessing manifested. A few never awakened at all, living their entire lives as ordinary humans in a world that had no use for ordinary anymore.
"You're going to be fine," Aisha said quietly. "Whenever it happens."
"You don't know that."
"Yes, I do." She stood, brushing dirt from her knees. "You're the toughest person I know, Kota. You survived six years out here. You survived losing everything. You'll survive this too."
He wanted to believe her. God, he wanted to believe her.
"What about you?" he asked. "You've got four months until yours."
Aisha's expression went distant. "Four months until I'm in the same boat. Waiting. Wondering if today's the day." She forced a smile. "One crisis at a time, right? Come on. Let's get this copper to Dad before someone tries to steal it."
The Smith family lived in a converted storage unit on the edge of the residential blocks. It wasn't much—two rooms and a workshop space—but Aisha's father had made it warm. Literally. He'd rigged a heating system from salvaged parts that actually worked, a minor miracle in the outskirts where most people froze through the winter.
Marcus Smith was bent over his workbench when they arrived, welding torch in hand, face hidden behind a scarred mask. Sparks cascaded across the concrete floor like dying stars. He didn't look up until Aisha cleared her throat loudly.
"Got something for you, Dad."
Marcus lifted his mask, revealing a weathered face creased with smile lines. "Kota. Heard you went diving in the warehouse district." His eyes found the bag. "Please tell me that's what I think it is."
"Three coils of copper wire. Good quality."
"Good quality," Marcus repeated, already reaching for the bag. He pulled out the wire with the reverence most people reserved for blessed artifacts. "Son, you just saved the Hendersons from another week of cold showers. And probably saved me from another week of listening to Mrs. Henderson complain about it." He grinned. "I'll get you your cut by tomorrow. Fair?"
"More than fair."
Marcus's expression grew serious. "You be careful out there, Kota. The creature sightings have been increasing. Guard captain says there might be a surge coming."
A surge. The word sent ice down Kota's spine. Surges happened when the barriers between worlds grew thin, when the creatures poured through in numbers that overwhelmed the defenses. The last surge had killed his parents.
"I'm always careful," Kota said.
"I know you are. But careful might not be enough if things get bad." Marcus set down the wire and placed a heavy hand on Kota's shoulder. "You're a good kid. Your parents would be proud of the man you're becoming."
The words hit harder than they should have. Kota's throat tightened. "Thank you, sir."
"None of that 'sir' nonsense. You're family." Marcus squeezed his shoulder once, then released him. "Now get out of my workshop before I put you to work. Aisha, go help your mother. I smell something burning."
"That's just your welding—oh." Aisha's eyes widened. "Oh no."
They ran.
The kitchen was full of smoke, but Aisha's mother was laughing. She stood at the stove, waving a towel at the haze, her round face flushed with heat and amusement.
"It's fine, it's fine!" Yuki Smith called out. "Just a little crispy around the edges!"
"Mom, you're supposed to stir the stew, not let it become charcoal," Aisha said, but she was smiling as she grabbed another towel and helped clear the smoke.
"I was stirring! I just got distracted by—well, it doesn't matter what I got distracted by." Yuki spotted Kota and her expression brightened. "Kota! Perfect timing. You can be my taste tester. Tell me honestly: is it salvageable?"
She thrust a spoon at him, loaded with something that might have been stew once. Kota took it carefully, aware of both women watching him. He tasted it.
It was... not good. But not inedible either.
"It's great, Mrs. Smith."
"You're a terrible liar, but I love you for trying." Yuki sighed and dumped the entire pot into the sink. "Alright, plan B. Aisha, grab the rice. Kota, you're on vegetable duty. We're making fried rice, and this time I'm not taking my eyes off the pan."
They worked together in the small kitchen, moving around each other with practiced ease. This was familiar too. Kota had spent countless evenings here, helping prepare meals, listening to Yuki's stories about the old world—the world before the creatures came, when people didn't live behind walls and children didn't learn to fight before they learned to read.
"Two weeks until you're fourteen," Yuki said suddenly, her voice quieter than before. She was stirring the rice, her movements careful and deliberate. "You'll be in the awakening years. Are you scared, Kota?"
He could have lied. Should have lied. But something about the warmth of the kitchen, the smell of cooking food, the presence of people who cared about him—it made him honest.
"Terrified," he admitted.
Yuki nodded. "Good. Fear means you're taking it seriously." She glanced at him, her eyes kind. "The not knowing is the hardest part, isn't it? It could be tomorrow, it could be years from now, it could be never. But don't let that uncertainty consume you. Whatever happens—whether you awaken next month or when you're nineteen, whether you're blessed or cursed or never awaken at all—you'll still be you. Still be the boy who brings my husband copper wire and helps my daughter in the garden and pretends my cooking is edible."
"Your cooking is—"
"Kota. We both know I'm a disaster in the kitchen." She smiled. "But I keep trying, because the people I love need to eat. That's what matters. Not whether you're blessed or cursed or somewhere in between. What matters is that you keep trying. Keep surviving. Keep being kind, even when the world gives you every reason not to be."
Aisha was watching them both, her expression unreadable. Then she crossed the kitchen and wrapped her arms around Kota in a fierce hug.
"Whatever happens, whenever it happens," she whispered, "you're going to make it. And we'll be right here. We're going to eat Mom's terrible cooking and laugh about how scared we were, and everything is going to be okay."
Kota hugged her back, letting himself believe it. Just for a moment.
Later, after the fried rice was eaten and the dishes were washed, Kota stood on the roof of the Smith family's unit, looking out over Okala. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and red that reminded him of fire. Of burning cities and screaming crowds and his mother's hand going limp in his.
He pushed the memory away.
In the distance, beyond the walls, he could see the wasteland. The half of the world that humanity had lost. Sometimes, when the wind was right, he could hear the creatures howling in the dark. Calling to each other. Hunting.
But here, inside the walls, there was light. There was warmth. There were people like the Smiths, who opened their homes and their hearts to broken boys with nothing to offer but copper wire and a willingness to survive.
Two weeks until he turned fourteen. Two weeks until he entered the window—that uncertain span of years where the awakening could come at any moment, or never come at all. He might discover his blessing tomorrow, or when he was nineteen, or he might be one of the rare few who never awakened. And if it did come, he still didn't know whether he would become one of the blessed, one of the cursed, or one of the dead.
Kota closed his eyes and made himself a promise. Whatever happened, whenever it happened, whatever power or horror the awakening might bring, he would survive it. He would survive it because Aisha believed in him. Because Marcus and Yuki had given him a reason to keep fighting. Because somewhere, in the ruins of his heart, there was still a spark of hope that refused to die.
The sun slipped below the horizon, and the darkness came. But Kota didn't move. He stood there, watching the lights of Okala flicker to life one by one, tiny defiant stars against the encroaching night.
He would survive.
He had to.