Keith kept his head down as he walked, not out of fear, but habit. In this realm, attention was a currency more dangerous than Synr. People noticed weakness quickly, and they noticed defiance even faster. He had learned that within hours of arriving. The streets didn't need guards to enforce order; hunger and desperation did that well enough on their own.
The work yards came into view soon after—long stretches of broken stone packed tight with bodies. Men, women, and children moved in slow, exhausted rhythms, hauling scrap, sorting refuse, dismantling old machines whose purposes had long been forgotten. Overseers stood at the edges, not shouting, not rushing anyone. There was no need. Anyone who slowed too much simply stopped getting paid.
"I have to earn sme kind of money or else im dead. Those bastards brought me here to make money for them while they sit around in luxury. I wont accept that. when I figure out how this power i've been given works. Ill come for them and ill kill him first."
He said this while thinking of the swordsman who slit his mother's throat
"Hey get in line,unless you wanna sleep on the streets."
one of fthe overseers said as he looked at keith.
When Keith stepped into the labor line, someone shifted beside him to make space. The boy was about his age, maybe younger by a year or two, with a narrow frame shaped by hunger rather than youth. His hair was cut unevenly, dark strands falling into sharp, observant eyes that missed very little. There was a tightness to his posture, as if he was always braced for impact, shoulders slightly hunched, hands never fully relaxed.
His clothes were patched more times than they were original, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms lined with thin, pale scars—old cuts that had healed wrong. His fingers moved with practiced care, joints stiff but precise, the kind of hands that had learned early what mistakes cost. Dirt clung beneath his nails no matter how often he scraped them clean.
His name was Vale
Vale spoke quietly without looking at him, passing along information the way people here did—flat, practical, stripped of sympathy. Keith learned which piles were worth sorting and which weren't, which overseers skimmed wages, and which ones didn't bother counting at all. He learned that leaving early cost more than it saved, and that staying too late marked you as desperate. Most importantly, he learned where not to stand if he wanted to keep his hands intact.
The advice came with no expectation of thanks. In this place, information wasn't kindness; it was survival etiquette. Vale had learned the rules the hard way, and sharing them cost him nothing. Keith absorbed every detail, adjusting his movements, copying the rhythm Vale used to avoid drawing attention.
"let's get straight to the point.Who are you and what do you want from me?"
keith asked vale while on high alert ensuring he was close to an overseer incase he tried to do anything funny.
"First of all im Vale and second can we take this conversation somewhere else?"
He choose his words carefully or else the overseer would have to intervene.
"No!"
Vale leaned foward to and whispered in his ear
"The only reason why I told you that info is because your presence feels familiar. I know for certain that i've senced it before in lumen alley."
Did keith come to this relm before? I'm not sure. His memories are scattered im ny brain like brokem piecec of glass. Anyways i guess my safest option is to go with him
"Alright ill follow you."
Vale led keith to where he worked.
As the hours dragged on, Keith noticed how Vale worked—efficient, but not fast. Fast workers were remembered. Remembered workers were reused. Vale avoided that fate with careful mediocrity, a skill Keith filed away for later.
When their shift ended, Vale disappeared into the crowd without a backward glance. No farewell, no acknowledgment. Just another presence swallowed by the streets. Keith watched him go, understanding instinctively that survival here wasn't about forming bonds—it was about passing through each other without friction.
keith stayed to work longer as he was new and he had to proove what he was capable of.
By the time the work yard released him, Keith's arms felt hollow, as if the strength had been scooped out and left behind with the scrap. His fingers no longer burned; the pain had dulled into something heavier, something that sat beneath the skin and refused to move. Exhaustion settled in layers, each step slower than the last, each breath drawn a little deeper than necessary.
Payment was handed out without ceremony. A clerk pressed a thin strip of marked Synr into his palm—dull-grade, the lowest circulation tier, its surface etched with shallow symbols already worn smooth by countless exchanges. It wasn't much. Just enough to prove the day had happened. Keith counted it once, then again, thumb tracing the faint lines as if they might change under pressure.
He had earned four dull-grade Synr strips. No more. No less.
Around him, workers dispersed in quiet patterns. Some left in pairs, others alone, most already calculating the same things he was: food first, shelter if possible, tomorrow always uncertain. A man with a crooked leg argued softly with the clerk, only to be ignored. A woman laughed too loudly as she checked her payment, the sound brittle and forced. Keith slipped past them all, unnoticed and unchallenged.
He traded half his earnings at a street stall wedged between two leaning buildings. The vendor didn't look up as he passed over the Synr, already reaching for the next customer. The food he received in return was barely warm, thin enough that he could see the bottom of the container through it. He ate anyway, slowly, conserving what little energy the meal provided.
The streets shifted as night approached. Not darker—this realm never truly darkened—but quieter, the constant motion thinning out until the alleys felt too wide for the number of people still moving through them. Lamps flickered on along the main paths, their glow weak and uneven, casting shadows that clung too closely to the walls.
Keith walked without destination, letting his body carry him where it could. He passed a group of children sorting refuse under a broken archway, their hands moving faster than their eyes. Further on, two men argued over a corner space beneath an intact overhang, their voices low but sharp. He kept his distance from both, head down, steps measured.
Fatigue crept into his bones. His shoulders sagged despite himself, spine protesting every time he straightened. The weight of the day pressed in—not just the labor, but the awareness that this would repeat tomorrow, and the day after, and however long it took to claw out something better. Or die trying.
By the time the lamps thinned out, Keith had accepted what he already knew. There would be no bed tonight. No room. Even the worst sleeping quarters demanded more Synr than he had left. He chose a narrow stretch beneath a half-collapsed stairway, far enough from the main road to avoid attention but close enough that he wouldn't vanish entirely if something went wrong.
He sat with his back against cold stone, knees drawn in, coat pulled tight. The remaining Synr rested in his pocket, a faint weight that felt heavier than it should have. Enough to survive. Not enough to live.
People passed him without slowing. A pair of laborers whispered as they walked, glancing once in his direction before looking away. Somewhere nearby, someone coughed—a deep, rattling sound that went on too long. Keith closed his eyes for a moment, breathing carefully, forcing his thoughts to stay grounded.
This realm wasn't trying to kill him.
It didn't have to.
When he opened his eyes again, the street had thinned even further. Footsteps echoed more clearly now, each one distinct. Keith noticed it then—not a presence exactly, but a sensation, faint and unfamiliar, brushing against the edge of his awareness like static before a storm. He didn't turn. He didn't move.
Someone passed him.
Just another figure walking the opposite direction, their steps light despite the late hour. For the briefest instant, the sensation sharpened—an echo, a pull, something that resonated in a way the rest of this realm did not. Keith's breath hitched, barely noticeable, his focus snapping outward before he could stop it.
The figure didn't slow. Didn't look back.
But the feeling lingered long after they were gone, humming quietly beneath his exhaustion.
Keith exhaled, unaware that somewhere down the same street, another presence had done the same.