The ceiling leaked in three places.
Kerean knew this because he had counted them.
One drip near the corner above the old wooden cabinet. One directly above the metal basin, his mother always placed before going to sleep. The last one, the most stubborn, fell from a crack that split the roof like a jagged scar. When it rained hard, the drops created a rhythm. Not music. Just persistence.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
He lay on his thin mattress and stared at the shadows moving across the ceiling. Outside, the dogs in the alley barked. Farther down the street, a generator coughed to life. Their district barely held electricity for long. It flickered like a reluctant promise.
Across the small house, his mother's sewing machine hummed.
It was past midnight.
The machine was old enough to complain about it. Each stitch sounded strained, as if it were tired of surviving.
His father had not returned yet.
Kerean turned to his side and faced the wall. The paint had long peeled away, revealing patches of cement underneath. In school, the children talked about beast compatibility charts and bloodline classifications. They debated whether flame beasts had better growth ceilings than storm-types. They argued about vitality values as if they were discussing the weather.
Kerean thought about rice prices.
He closed his eyes.
The hum of the sewing machine continued.
His mother worked five times harder than anyone else he knew. She took tailoring jobs during the day. At night, she repaired uniforms for students from wealthier districts. She never complained. Her hands were always pricked with needle wounds. Sometimes he would catch her pressing her thumb quietly, hiding the sting.
She said it was nothing.
His father worked at the port during the day and at a warehouse loading yard at night. Two shifts. Sometimes three. His shoulders had developed a permanent forward curve, like a tree that had grown bent against the wind for too long.
They never talked about exhaustion.
They talked about tuition.
"Kerean will go to college," his mother would say.
"Even if I have to carry ships on my back," his father would answer.
Kerean hated that sentence.
Not because it wasn't loving.
But because it was possible.
In this world, everyone carried an egg.
Some wore them in velvet-lined carriers slung over their shoulders. Some kept them in temperature-controlled crystal cases. The wealthy even hired attendants whose sole job was to maintain incubation temperature.
Kerean carried nothing.
He was seventeen.
In one year, he would be eligible to awaken as a Tamer.
If he had an egg.
If he didn't, he would remain ordinary.
Ordinary meant factory shifts.
Ordinary meant back-bent shoulders.
Ordinary meant counting ceiling leaks.
He sat up slowly and glanced at the corner of the room where a small metal tin box was hidden beneath folded clothes.
His savings.
He stood quietly, careful not to disturb the rhythm of his mother's machine, and walked barefoot across the cool cement floor.
The tin box was light when he first bought it.
It felt slightly heavier now.
He opened it.
Stacks of carefully folded bills. Coins were separated into little paper wraps. He had counted them so often that he knew the total by memory.
Thirty-eight thousand, seven hundred.
The cheapest legitimate taming egg on the legal market started at $100,000.
The number wasn't just large.
It was distant.
He closed the box gently.
Behind him, the sewing machine stopped.
"Kerean?"
His mother's voice was soft.
He turned.
She sat at the small wooden table under a flickering bulb. Her hair was tied in a loose bun. A half-finished academy blazer lay beneath her hands.
"Why aren't you sleeping?"
"Just thirsty," he lied.
She studied him for a moment. She always knew.
"You don't have to worry," she said quietly. "Your father and I are saving, too."
That made his throat tighten.
He nodded.
He did not tell her that he already knew how much they had.
He had once seen the ledger.
They were barely covering tuition and food.
There was no egg fund.
He returned to his mattress.
The drip continued.
He stared at the ceiling again.
He did not pray.
He calculated.
Morning arrived without ceremony.
Kerean woke before the sun. He washed with cold water from a plastic container, dressed in his worn academy uniform, and stepped into the alley.
The district smelled of fried oil and damp concrete. Vendors were already setting up makeshift stalls. Children ran barefoot between puddles.
Across the street, a boy his age adjusted the silk strap of an egg carrier around his shoulder. The shell inside shimmered faintly blue.
Basic-grade.
At least.
The boy caught Kerean looking.
He smirked.
"Still empty-handed?"
Kerean offered a neutral smile and kept walking.
Academy life was simple in theory.
Tamers were superior.
Everyone else orbited them.
Even before awakening, status showed.
Students from wealthy families openly compared their egg grades. Some even paid specialists to test shell vitality before incubation.
Kerean carried textbooks.
During break, he sat beneath the stairwell and ate rice with soy sauce and oil from a small container his mother packed.
Across the courtyard, a group gathered around a boy whose egg pulsed faintly with golden veins.
"Rare light affinity," someone whispered.
"His family pre-ordered it."
Pre-ordered.
As if destiny could be reserved.
Kerean lowered his gaze and opened his notebook.
Numbers again.
He had three side jobs.
Before school, he delivered newspapers.
After school, he worked at a small eatery washing dishes.
On weekends, he sorted scrap metal for a recycling yard.
He did not resent it.
Resentment required spare energy.
He simply moved.
After classes ended, he skipped lingering conversations and headed to the eatery.
The owner, Aunt Lira, was a sharp-eyed woman with permanently rolled-up sleeves.
"You're late," she called.
"Sorry."
"Apologies don't scrub plates."
He tied on an apron and stepped into the humid kitchen.
Steam wrapped around him. Grease coated the air. He washed plates until his fingers wrinkled and his shoulders burned.
Sometimes, academy students came to eat.
Sometimes they complained about incubation temperatures being slightly unstable.
He listened.
He memorized.
He learned.
By the time he finished, the sky had turned deep orange.
He walked home instead of taking the bus.
Transport money went into the tin box.
Halfway down the road, he stopped at a small convenience stall and bought discounted bread nearing expiration.
Dinner addition.
At home, his father was already there, sitting on the single plastic chair.
His shirt was soaked through.
"You're home," his father said with a tired grin.
Kerean nodded.
They ate quietly.
Rice.
Bread.
A thin soup made from yesterday's leftovers.
His mother spoke about a large tailoring commission.
His father mentioned an extra warehouse shift.
Kerean listened.
He noticed how slowly his father lifted his spoon.
He noticed how his mother rubbed her wrist when she thought no one was looking.
After dinner, he did homework by the window while his parents returned to work.
He pretended not to see them leave.
The house felt larger when empty.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
He opened the tin box again.
Thirty-eight thousand, seven hundred.
He added today's wages.
Thirty-nine thousand, nine hundred.
The number moved.
But not fast enough.
He closed the lid.
Outside, distant laughter echoed from a richer district where streetlamps did not flicker.
Kerean leaned back against the wall.
Seventeen.
One year left.
If he failed to secure a taming egg by eighteen, he would miss the awakening window for formal academy registration.
Late awakeners rarely received institutional support.
Late meant lesser.
He pressed his palm against his chest.
It felt steady.
Ordinary.
But somewhere deep inside, something restless stirred.
Not power.
Not yet.
Just refusal.