They didn't take him far.
Just far enough that the square's stone gave way to damp brick, and the cheers and whispers of the crowd faded into the background noise of the slums. An alley yawned open behind the Awakening Square, narrow and crooked, its walls stained with old runoff and newer blood.
Aiden was shoved forward.
He stumbled, caught himself, and straightened before anyone could comment.
A baton cracked across the back of his knees anyway.
Pain flared white-hot. He hit the ground hard, palms scraping stone. His breath burst from his lungs in a sharp, involuntary gasp.
"Stay down," someone said.
Aiden didn't answer.
Boots surrounded him. Steel-toed. Heavy. Official.
Guardian Knight probationers—too young for real assignments, too eager to prove they could follow orders without asking why. Their armor was plainer, their cloaks shorter, but the spears were just as sharp.
Two Fate collectors lingered near the alley mouth, arms crossed, watching with detached interest. Like men waiting for meat to finish tenderizing.
Aiden pushed himself up onto one knee.
A kick slammed into his ribs.
He heard the crack before he felt it.
His vision swam, stars exploding behind his eyes. He coughed, something warm splattering the stones.
"Persistent," one probationer muttered. "Even without a card."
"That's why they go bad," another replied. "No destiny to keep them in line."
Aiden laughed.
It came out wet and broken, more breath than sound.
"Did I miss the part," he rasped, "where I asked for your opinion?"
That earned him a fist to the face.
His head snapped sideways, cheek slamming into the wall. The world rang. The alley tilted.
Hands grabbed his hair and yanked his head back.
A young knight leaned close, visor lifted just enough to reveal a sneer. "You don't exist," he said. "So you don't get to talk."
Aiden spat blood at his boots.
The knight recoiled with a curse and brought his baton down again. And again. And again.
Each strike was measured. Controlled. Not rage.
Procedure.
When they finally stopped, Aiden lay sprawled on the stones, chest heaving, limbs heavy and slow to respond. Every breath stabbed. One eye was swelling shut. His mouth tasted like iron.
A Fate collector crouched beside him.
He smelled like oil and expensive soap—an intrusion in the rot-heavy alley.
"Unwritten lives don't count," the man said conversationally. "Did you know that?"
Aiden forced his good eye open. "Guess… I'll stop… paying rent then."
The collector chuckled. "Already solved."
He stood and nodded toward the alley's far end.
"Dispose of him."
They dragged Aiden again.
This time, no pretense of restraint. His head bounced off brick. His shoulder slammed into a rusted pipe. Somewhere along the way, his knife slipped from beneath his clothes and clattered away.
He didn't have the strength to care.
The air grew colder.
Wetter.
The alley narrowed until it ended in a slanted iron grate half-hidden behind broken crates and old refuse. Dark water seeped from beneath it, carrying a sour, metallic stench.
The sewer tunnels.
Officially sealed. Officially monitored.
Unofficially—
A dumping ground.
One of the probationers grunted as they heaved the grate aside. Warm, foul air rushed out, thick with decay and something else. Something alive.
Aiden's stomach churned.
He knew the rumors.
People fell in. People were pushed in. People sent in "by accident."
Sometimes bodies floated back up.
Sometimes they didn't.
Monsters leaked from the tunnels when maintenance was ignored long enough. Slimes. Crawlers. Things with too many legs or too many teeth. Small enough that the Guardians called them nuisances.
Large enough to eat a man alive.
Aiden was hauled to the edge.
The drop wasn't far—maybe three meters—but the darkness swallowed everything beneath it. Water sloshed somewhere below. Slow. Thick.
One of the knights hesitated.
"Shouldn't we… check?" he asked. "Make sure he's—"
The older probationer shoved Aiden forward.
"No card," he said flatly. "No record. If he dies down there, it saves us time."
He looked at Aiden, expression blank.
"Welcome to nowhere."
They let go.
Aiden fell.
The impact drove the air from his lungs. He hit water and sludge, the shock sending pain lancing through his already-battered body. Filth surged into his mouth and nose. He choked, flailed weakly, then managed to roll onto his side, coughing violently.
Above him, the grate slammed shut.
Light vanished.
The sound echoed down the tunnel, final and absolute.
Aiden lay there, gasping, chest burning, limbs trembling.
For a long moment, there was nothing but darkness and the slow drip of water.
Then the pain caught up.
Every bruise bloomed. Every crack screamed. His ribs felt wrong—sharp, misaligned. Breathing hurt. Moving hurt more.
He laughed anyway.
A thin, broken sound that bounced off stone and came back sounding worse.
"So… this is it," he muttered hoarsely. "Erased."
He pushed himself upright inch by inch, back pressing against the slimy tunnel wall. Cold seeped into his skin. The water around his legs shifted, disturbed by his movement.
The darkness was complete.
No moonlight. No cracks. No mercy.
Aiden closed his eyes.
Thought of Maren's hands on his shoulder.
Thought of Tomas's laugh.
Thought of the girl screaming.
"Figures," he said weakly.
Something moved.
Not water.
Not echo.
A scrape, low and deliberate, from deeper in the tunnel.
Aiden's smile widened just a little.
Blood trickled down his chin.
"Well," he whispered into the dark, "might as well meet the neighbors."