Morning light crept into the little house hesitantly, slipping through the uneven cracks in the brick-and-sand walls as if even the sun was unsure whether it was welcome here. The light did not flood the room; it fractured, breaking into thin, pale streaks that barely chased away the shadows clinging to the corners. The house stood like a brittle spine against the harshness of the first city, more a structure of endurance than comfort, a place assembled not to live in, but to survive inside. Every wall bore the scars of weather and neglect, and every sound—wind brushing the tin roof, distant footsteps outside—felt amplified in the fragile silence of the morning.
On the narrow cot near the wall lay Pema, her body wrapped tightly in an old quilt whose once-bright colors had long surrendered to time and dust. The fabric was thin now, almost translucent in places, yet she clutched it as if it were armor. Her frame looked too small for the cot, as though illness had slowly been carving pieces of her away. Each breath she took came with effort, her chest rising unevenly, followed by a deep, rattling cough that shook her entire body. She pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, trying to soften the sound, not wanting to disturb the fragile peace of the morning.
When the coughing subsided, Pema opened her eyes, and despite the pain etched into her face, there was a gentleness there that refused to die. Her gaze followed her sons as they moved around the room, and in them she saw the only reasons her heart still fought her failing body. She watched them the way one watches a fading flame, fearful that a single gust might snuff it out forever. In that moment, the ache in her lungs felt secondary to the ache in her soul.
Arin moved first, quietly and efficiently, as if the house itself responded to his presence. He lifted a cracked pot with careful hands, checking the water level, then set it down with precision. Every motion he made was deliberate, practiced, learned through necessity rather than choice. His tall, lean frame bent and straightened with a discipline that did not belong to someone so young. He wiped the floor, adjusted the thin curtain by the doorway, and checked the small pouch of medicine beside Pema's cot, counting the remaining tablets twice, just to be sure.
Blue hovered nearby, his movements restless, his feet dragging against the earthen floor. He was supposed to help, but his attention drifted from task to task, his hands often idle while his mouth was not. His face twisted into a familiar expression of irritation, brows furrowed, lips pursed as if the world itself had wronged him personally. "Why does it always have to be like this?" he muttered, kicking a small pebble near the door. His voice was not loud, but it carried, sharp and accusing in the cramped space.
Arin did not respond. He merely glanced at Blue for a brief moment, his dark eyes unreadable, before returning to his work. The silence between them was heavy, layered with things neither knew how to say. Blue scoffed at the lack of response, folding his arms tightly across his chest, while Arin continued moving, unshaken, as though endurance itself had become his language.
From her cot, Pema watched this familiar exchange unfold, and her heart tightened painfully. She saw two fragments of the same life moving in opposite directions—one forced to grow up too fast, the other clinging desperately to the right to be a child. Together, they created a rhythm that felt both functional and broken, a balance held together by strain rather than harmony. Pema turned her face slightly toward the wall, blinking back tears she refused to let fall. In the quiet struggle between her sons, she saw the reflection of a world that had taken too much and given too little, and she wondered how much longer love alone could hold them together.
Arin straightened slowly after setting the medicine pouch back in its place, his shoulders squaring as if he were bracing himself against something invisible yet constant. There was a weight in the way he stood, a gravity that did not belong to a boy his age. His face, though still young, carried lines shaped not by time but by restraint—by words swallowed, fears managed, and responsibilities accepted without question. His dark eyes flicked briefly toward the doorway, as though measuring the day ahead, calculating what little it would demand and what little it would give in return.
Once, long ago, those same eyes had sparkled with curiosity rather than caution. Arin had been the child who asked too many questions, who dismantled broken devices just to understand how they worked, who stayed awake late into the night scribbling ideas into notebooks filled with crooked diagrams and hopeful equations. In classrooms bathed in artificial light and ambition, teachers had praised his sharpness, calling him gifted, calling him promising. He remembered the feel of polished desks beneath his palms, the hum of advanced machines, the thrill of being told he could become something more than his circumstances.
Those memories felt unreal now, like stories borrowed from another life. The fall had been sudden, brutal, and absolute. His father's debts had arrived like a silent executioner, stripping away their mansion, their status, their security, piece by piece, until nothing remained but shame and relocation papers stamped with the seal of the first city. Arin remembered the day they left—the way the gates closed behind them, the way no one looked back. In that moment, childhood had ended without ceremony.
Now, instead of textbooks, Arin held cracked tools scavenged from neighbors. Instead of dreaming about machines that could heal the world, he calculated how to make rusted parts work one more day, how to barter his skill for scraps of food or a cup of clean water. His mind still worked the same way—quick, analytical, inventive—but its purpose had narrowed to survival. Every decision he made revolved around one question alone: how to keep his family alive.
Blue's resentment was an unspoken constant in that calculation. Arin felt it even when his brother said nothing, felt it in the way Blue avoided his gaze, in the sharpness of his complaints, in the tension that rose whenever Arin took control without asking. He understood it more than Blue would ever know. He knew what it felt like to lose everything, to watch a future collapse into dust. The difference was that Arin had lived long enough in the old world to know what was gone, while Blue had only ever known absence.
Still, Arin never allowed himself the luxury of anger. He accepted Blue's words, his accusations, his bitterness, as part of the price of being the elder brother. If someone had to bear the weight, Arin believed it should be him. He had been given more once; now he would give more in return. Whether this belief came from love, guilt, or punishment, even Arin was no longer sure.
As he reached for his worn jacket, preparing to step outside later in the day, his eyes flicked once more to his mother. Pema was watching him, her gaze filled with something that hurt more than blame—sorrow mixed with pride, love tangled with regret. Arin offered her a small nod, barely noticeable, but it carried everything he could not say. I will manage. I always will.
Behind him, Blue turned away, his jaw clenched tight, pretending not to notice. And in that small, suffocating room, the distance between the two brothers stretched quietly, fed not by hatred, but by the cruel imbalance of fate that neither of them had chosen.
Blue kicked at a small stone near the doorway, watching it skid across the dirt floor before coming to rest against the wall. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, a child's attempt at strength that only made his frame look smaller. "You always act like you know everything," he muttered, not looking at Arin. His voice was low, but sharp enough to cut. "Like you're the father now."
Arin paused. Just for a second. Not long enough for Blue to notice, but long enough for the words to land. He did not turn around immediately. Instead, he finished tightening the strap of his bag, his fingers steady, practiced. When he finally faced his brother, his expression was calm, almost gentle. "I don't know everything," he said quietly. "I just know what needs to be done."
"That's what you always say," Blue snapped. "You decide. You work. You talk. I just sit here like I'm useless." His eyes burned, not with anger alone, but with something softer and more dangerous—shame. "You had schools. Teachers. Everyone said you were special. What do I have?"
Arin's throat tightened. He took a step closer, lowering himself slightly so they were almost eye level. "You have time," he said. "And you have choices. Things I don't anymore."
Blue laughed, a short, bitter sound that didn't belong to a child. "Time to starve? Time to watch you act like a hero?" His voice cracked despite his effort. "You don't even let me help."
"I let you help," Arin replied. "You just don't see it that way."
Before Blue could answer, a weak cough echoed from the cot. Both boys turned instantly. Pema's breathing had grown rough again, her chest rising unevenly beneath the thin quilt. Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, then settling on her sons. "Don't fight," she whispered, each word costing her effort. "Not… over this."
Blue's anger faltered. He shifted uncomfortably, guilt flashing across his face. "I wasn't—" he began, then stopped. He didn't know how to finish the sentence without sounding cruel.
Arin moved to his mother's side, adjusting the quilt, offering her a cup of water with careful hands. "We're fine, Ma," he said softly. "Just talking."
Pema studied them both, seeing far more than their words allowed. "You're both carrying too much," she murmured. Her gaze lingered on Blue. "And you," she added gently, "are not small just because the world made you wait."
Blue swallowed hard, staring at the floor.
Silence settled again, thick and uneasy. Outside, the sounds of the first city drifted in—distant voices, the scrape of metal, the cough of someone who would not be treated. Life continued, indifferent to their pain.
Arin stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "I'll be back before dark," he said, more to reassure than to inform.
Blue nodded stiffly. "Fine."
As Arin stepped toward the door, Pema reached out weakly, her fingers brushing his wrist. "Arin," she whispered.
He leaned closer. "Yes?"
"Don't forget… you're still allowed to be young," she said, tears gathering in her eyes.
Arin forced a small smile. "Maybe someday."
He stepped outside, the door creaking shut behind him, leaving Blue alone with their mother and his thoughts. Blue stood there for a long moment, staring at the closed door, anger and longing twisting together in his chest. Somewhere deep inside, a question took root—one that scared him more than hunger ever had.
What if Arin left one day… and never came back?
Blue sat down slowly on the floor beside the cot, his earlier anger draining away and leaving behind a hollow ache he didn't know how to name. He watched his mother's chest rise and fall, uneven and strained, each breath sounding like a quiet struggle against something invisible. For the first time that day, he noticed how thin she had become, how her wrists looked too small for her hands, how the quilt seemed to weigh more than her body could bear. The sight unsettled him in a way his arguments with Arin never had.
"Ma… does it hurt?" Blue asked softly, his voice stripped of its sharpness.
Pema turned her head slightly toward him, a faint smile touching her lips. "Only when I breathe," she replied, trying to make it sound light, almost joking. The effort ended in a cough that shook her whole frame. Blue flinched, instinctively reaching out, then pulling his hand back as if afraid he might break her.
"I don't like it when you joke like that," he muttered.
She studied him for a moment, then lifted her hand weakly. Blue hesitated before taking it, her skin warm but fragile in his grip. "You're angry with your brother," she said quietly, not accusing, simply stating a truth.
"He thinks he's better than me," Blue said, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. "Everyone did. Father did too." The moment the name left his mouth, regret followed, but it was too late to pull it back.
Pema closed her eyes. "Your father loved you both," she whispered. "Just… not wisely."
Blue frowned. "Then why did Arin get everything?"
Pema's grip tightened slightly. "Because the world gave him more time before it broke," she said. "Not because he deserved more love."
Blue stared at her, confusion mixing with something like fear. "So… I was just born too late?"
"No," she replied firmly, summoning strength from somewhere deep inside. "You were born into a storm. That does not make you less. It makes you stronger, if you survive it."
Blue didn't answer. He looked down at their joined hands, his fingers gripping hers as though anchoring himself. The room felt too quiet, too still, as if waiting.
Outside, the sun had begun to sink, casting long shadows through the cracks in the walls. The light painted the room in dull gold, catching on dust motes that floated like ghosts of the past. Blue watched them drift, thinking of the things he had never seen—the schools Arin talked about, the shining rooms, the life that had existed before he could remember.
"Ma," he said after a long pause. "Do you think… things will ever be normal again?"
Pema didn't answer immediately. Her silence stretched, heavy and careful. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a breath. "No," she said. "But they will be different. And sometimes… different is all the hope we get."
Blue nodded slowly, though the words didn't comfort him. They felt like a door closing rather than opening.
As darkness crept in fully, the city outside grew louder—arguments over food, the distant wail of someone being taken away, the clatter of metal against metal. Blue stood and moved to the doorway, peering out into the narrow street. Somewhere out there, Arin was working, carrying the same burden he always did.
For the first time, Blue wondered what it would feel like to carry it with him… instead of resenting it.
And in that quiet, uncertain thought, something inside Blue began to shift—subtly, dangerously—setting the stage for choices that would one day tear them further apart, or bind them forever.
Night settled fully over the first city, pressing down like a heavy lid. The narrow streets outside were lit only by scattered fires and flickering lamps, their light trembling against walls stained with years of neglect. Blue lay on the floor near his mother's cot, unable to sleep. Every sound felt louder in the dark—the rasp of Pema's breathing, the distant shouts of neighbors, the occasional echo of boots on stone. He stared at the ceiling, counting the cracks, imagining shapes in the shadows, his mind restless and unsettled.
Time stretched painfully slow. Blue wondered how long Arin had been gone. He tried to remember the last time his brother had returned late, and whether that had ended in relief or worry. The thought made his chest tighten. He rolled onto his side, clutching his knees, telling himself Arin was strong, careful, smarter than the world that tried to crush him. Yet strength had not saved their father. That realization crept in uninvited, cold and sharp.
A sudden cough from Pema snapped Blue upright. He scrambled to her side, panic flaring as her breathing grew erratic. "Ma?" he whispered urgently. "Ma, I'm here." He lifted her slightly, supporting her shoulders the way he'd seen Arin do, though his arms trembled with the effort. Pema's eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused.
"Water…" she murmured.
Blue rushed to the clay pot, his hands shaking as he poured what little remained into a chipped cup. He brought it back carefully, holding it to her lips. She drank slowly, each swallow deliberate, precious. When she finished, Blue wiped her mouth with his sleeve, biting back tears he refused to let fall.
"I don't want Arin to come back and see you like this," he said quietly, more to himself than to her.
Pema gave a faint smile. "He has seen worse," she whispered. "So have you."
Blue shook his head. "I don't want to be like him," he said suddenly. The confession slipped out before he could stop it. "I don't want to be tired all the time. I don't want to pretend I'm fine."
Pema studied him, her gaze sharp despite her weakness. "Then don't pretend," she said. "But don't run either. Pain follows those who run."
Before Blue could respond, a sound reached them from outside—the familiar creak of the door, followed by footsteps. Blue's heart leapt. He rushed to the entrance just as Arin stepped inside, his face drawn, his clothes dusted with grime. Relief washed over Blue, sudden and overwhelming.
"You're late," Blue said, trying to sound annoyed and failing.
Arin gave a tired smile. "Work took longer."
His eyes immediately went to their mother. "How is she?"
Blue hesitated, then answered honestly. "Not good. But she's awake."
Arin moved to Pema's side, kneeling, checking her breathing, her pulse, his movements efficient but gentle. Blue watched him closely, seeing for the first time not just the burden Arin carried, but the fear beneath it—the constant, gnawing terror of losing what little remained.
As Arin sat back on his heels, exhaling slowly, Blue spoke again, his voice softer now. "Arin… what happens if this city never changes?"
Arin looked at him for a long moment before replying. "Then we do," he said simply.
Blue didn't know whether that answer scared him or gave him hope.
Outside, the fires burned low, and somewhere far beyond the walls of the first city, other cities slept in comfort and light. And in the darkness of their small home, two brothers lay awake, bound by blood, divided by circumstance, and standing unknowingly at the edge of a future that would demand far more than survival.
Silence settled again, heavier than before. Arin stayed beside their mother until her breathing steadied, then carefully pulled the quilt higher around her shoulders. Only when he was sure she had drifted into an uneasy sleep did he stand and move away. He leaned against the wall, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm, exhaustion finally cracking through his controlled exterior.
Blue watched him from the floor. In the dim light, Arin looked older, almost unrecognizable from the brother Blue argued with earlier. There was dirt under his nails, a faint cut along his knuckle, and a stiffness in his shoulders that spoke of hours spent bending over broken tools. For the first time, Blue noticed how thin Arin had become, how the sharp lines of his face were no longer just intelligence, but hunger.
"What did you fix today?" Blue asked quietly.
Arin hesitated, then shrugged. "A water valve. Two cooking units. One broken generator coil." He paused. "Didn't get paid much."
Blue nodded, staring at the floor. "You never do."
Arin's lips twitched faintly. "Still enough to eat tomorrow."
Blue shifted closer, lowering his voice. "Did anyone… get sick?"
Arin's expression hardened for a brief second. "A man down the street collapsed. Fever." He didn't elaborate. He didn't need to.
Blue swallowed. "Did you touch him?"
"No," Arin said firmly. "I didn't."
Relief flickered across Blue's face before he could hide it. He turned away quickly, embarrassed by the fear he had just revealed. Arin noticed anyway.
"You don't have to be brave all the time," Arin said after a moment. "I know you're scared."
Blue snapped back, "I'm not."
Arin didn't argue. He simply sat down beside him, back against the wall, knees drawn up. The distance between them was smaller now, measured in inches instead of years. Outside, the sounds of the city softened, exhaustion pulling even chaos toward rest.
"Do you ever think about leaving?" Blue asked suddenly.
Arin frowned. "Leaving where?"
"This city," Blue said. "All of it. The walls. The lines. The waiting."
Arin was silent for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice was low. "Every day."
Blue looked at him sharply. "Then why don't we?"
Arin turned to face him. "Because wanting to leave and being able to leave are two different things." He gestured subtly toward their mother. "And because running without a plan is just another way to die."
Blue's jaw clenched. "So we're just trapped."
"No," Arin replied. "We're contained. There's a difference."
Blue scoffed. "Sounds the same to me."
Arin studied him carefully. "You're angry," he said. "That's not a bad thing. But if you let it decide for you, it will burn you before it burns anyone else."
Blue didn't respond. He hugged his knees tighter, staring at the cracked floor. "I don't want to be invisible," he muttered.
Arin's gaze softened. "You're not."
Blue laughed bitterly. "Then why does no one see me?"
Arin opened his mouth, then closed it. Some truths were too heavy to offer without breaking something fragile. Instead, he placed a hand briefly on Blue's shoulder. The touch was awkward, uncertain, but real.
"I see you," he said.
Blue stiffened, then slowly relaxed. He didn't look at Arin, but he didn't pull away either.
They sat like that for a long time, two silhouettes against a crumbling wall, bound by blood and circumstance. Outside, a siren wailed briefly, then fell silent. Somewhere, someone else was losing everything.
And deep within Blue, beneath the anger and envy, a dangerous resolve was beginning to take shape—not yet a plan, not yet a rebellion, but a quiet promise to himself that one day, somehow, he would not live and die unseen.
The night swallowed the house whole, and with it, the fragile peace between two brothers standing at the edge of a future neither of them could yet imagine.
The hours crawled forward until even the sirens outside fell silent, replaced by a tense stillness that made the city feel like it was holding its breath. Blue eventually lay down again, but sleep did not come. His thoughts circled endlessly—his father's absence, his mother's fragile breathing, Arin's quiet endurance. Each memory pressed against him, shaping something restless and sharp inside his chest. He turned onto his side, watching Arin across the room, who sat with his back against the wall, eyes half-closed but alert, as if sleep were a luxury he no longer trusted.
"You should sleep," Blue whispered after a long while.
Arin opened his eyes slowly. "So should you."
Blue hesitated, then asked, "Are you ever afraid… that Ma won't wake up one day?"
The question hung between them, heavy and unforgiving. Arin didn't answer immediately. His gaze drifted toward Pema's cot, to the shallow rise and fall of her chest. When he finally spoke, his voice was steady, but something fragile trembled beneath it. "Yes," he said. "Every day."
Blue swallowed hard. "Then how do you keep going?"
Arin exhaled slowly. "Because stopping doesn't change the fear," he replied. "It just gives it permission to win."
Blue stared at the floor. "I hate this city," he muttered. "I hate the walls. I hate how people look at us. Like we're already dead."
Arin nodded. "That's exactly why we can't become what they expect."
Blue frowned. "And what do they expect?"
"They expect us to break," Arin said simply. "To turn on each other. To give up."
Blue's fingers curled into fists. "Sometimes I want to scream," he admitted. "Sometimes I want to do something so big they can't ignore me."
Arin studied him closely. "Be careful with that feeling," he warned softly. "It can save you… or it can ruin you."
Before Blue could respond, Pema stirred again. This time, her cough was weaker, more distant, as if it came from far away. Arin moved instantly, kneeling beside her, checking her forehead, her pulse. Blue watched, fear tightening his throat.
"Is she…?" Blue began.
"She's sleeping," Arin said, though uncertainty flickered in his eyes. "Just resting."
Blue nodded, though he wasn't convinced. He crawled closer, sitting beside the cot, resting his head against the edge. For the first time, he didn't pull away when Arin sat beside him. Their shoulders brushed, a small, unspoken truce forming in the quiet.
"I didn't mean what I said earlier," Blue whispered. "About you acting like Father."
Arin looked at him. "I know."
"I just…" Blue hesitated. "I don't want to be left behind."
Arin's jaw tightened. "I won't leave you," he said firmly. "Not unless you push me away."
Blue shook his head. "I won't."
Outside, dawn began to creep faintly into the sky, a dull gray light seeping through the cracks in the walls. Another day was coming—another day of hunger, fear, and survival. But in that fragile moment, sitting beside their sleeping mother, the brothers shared something rare in the first city: understanding.
Neither of them noticed how Pema's breathing had grown quieter than before, nor how the light touching her face seemed almost too gentle, as if the world itself were preparing to say goodbye.
The light crept further into the room, pale and uncertain, painting the cracked walls in muted gray. Blue was the first to notice the silence. Not the peaceful kind, but the wrong kind—the absence that presses against the ears. He lifted his head slowly, listening, his heart beginning to pound for reasons he did not yet understand.
"Arin…" he whispered.
Arin looked up instantly. His eyes went straight to their mother. He froze.
Pema lay unnaturally still. Her chest did not rise. Her lips, once trembling with breath and whispered prayers, were calm now, almost serene. For a moment, Arin told himself she was only sleeping deeper than before. He reached out, placing two fingers against her neck, searching for a pulse he had checked a thousand times.
There was nothing.
"No," Arin said softly, the word barely leaving his mouth.
Blue scrambled to his feet. "What? What is it?" He stepped closer, panic flooding his voice. "Arin, what's wrong?"
Arin pressed his ear to her chest, his hand shaking now, betraying the composure he had clung to all night. He waited. One second. Two. Three. The world seemed to narrow to that terrible waiting.
Still nothing.
Blue's breath hitched. "Say something," he begged. "You're scaring me."
Arin straightened slowly, his face drained of color. He looked at Blue, and in that look was an answer more brutal than words.
Blue shook his head violently. "No. No, you're lying. She was just talking. She was fine." He rushed forward, grabbing Pema's shoulders gently at first, then harder. "Ma? Wake up. Please. Wake up."
Arin caught his wrists. "Blue," he said, his voice breaking for the first time. "Stop."
Blue screamed then, a raw, animal sound that tore through the small house and spilled into the street outside. He collapsed beside the cot, clutching his mother's lifeless hand, his tears soaking into the old quilt. "You promised," he sobbed. "You promised you wouldn't leave."
Arin stood frozen, his body rigid, as if any movement might shatter what little remained of him. He had prepared for this moment in theory, told himself it could happen any day. But knowing did not soften the blow. It only made it crueler.
He forced himself to move. He closed Pema's eyes gently, his fingers trembling as he smoothed her hair back. She looked peaceful now, as though the suffering had finally loosened its grip. That, somehow, made it worse.
Outside, footsteps approached. Someone had heard Blue's scream. A neighbor's voice called out cautiously, "Is everything all right in there?"
Arin didn't answer.
Blue clung to their mother, shaking, his grief pouring out unchecked. "She said she'd stay," he cried. "She said she wouldn't leave us alone."
Arin knelt beside him, wrapping his arms around his brother despite Blue's resistance. "She didn't leave you," he said hoarsely. "She stayed as long as she could."
"That's not enough!" Blue shouted, pushing him away. "It's never enough!"
Arin let him go. He had no strength left to hold anything together.
The door creaked open slightly as a neighbor peered in, their expression shifting the moment they saw the body. Fear crossed their face, followed quickly by calculation. "You need to report this," they said quietly. "Before the patrols come."
Arin nodded numbly. He knew the rules. Death in the first city was not mourned—it was processed. Bodies were removed. Homes were marked. Time was not given.
Blue looked up sharply. "No," he said. "They can't take her."
"They will," Arin replied, his voice hollow. "If we don't call them, they'll come anyway."
Blue stared at him as if he were a stranger. "You're just going to let them?" he demanded. "Like they took Father?"
Arin closed his eyes. "I don't have a choice."
That realization settled heavily between them. Another thing stolen. Another decision forced by a world that offered none.
As the neighbor stepped back to alert the authorities, Arin looked down at his brother—small, broken, furious—and something inside him hardened. Not into anger, but into something colder. Something deliberate.
Blue would remember this moment. Arin knew it. The silence. The helplessness. The way the world did not pause for their grief.
And somewhere far beyond the walls of the first city, powers moved, untouched and unaware, while in a crumbling house, two brothers crossed an invisible line—one toward responsibility sharpened into resolve, the other toward a fire that would one day demand to be seen.
The day had begun like any other.
But nothing in their lives would ever be the same again.
The patrol arrived before the sun had fully risen, their boots heavy against the narrow street, their voices low and efficient. Two men in gray masks stepped inside without waiting for permission, the symbol of the city council stamped across their chests. They did not look at Arin or Blue for long. Their eyes went straight to the cot.
One of them checked Pema's wrist, then nodded. "Time of death?" he asked flatly.
"Early morning," Arin replied, his voice steady in a way that surprised even him.
The man marked something on a slate. "Cause?"
Arin hesitated for half a second. "Respiratory failure. Long illness."
The patrolman didn't question it. He'd heard the same answer too many times. "You have ten minutes," he said. "Then we take the body."
Blue lunged forward. "No!" he shouted. "You can't just—"
Arin grabbed his arm, pulling him back hard. "Blue. Stop."
Blue spun on him, eyes wild. "She's not a thing you can carry away!"
The second patrolman finally looked at Blue then, his gaze cold behind the mask. "Control the child," he said. "Or we will."
The threat was quiet, practiced, absolute.
Arin tightened his grip on Blue's arm until his brother went still, shaking with rage. "Please," Arin said, forcing the word past his throat. "Just… give us a moment."
The patrolmen exchanged a glance. One sighed. "Five minutes," he said. "That's all."
They stepped outside.
The room felt impossibly small now, as if the walls had crept closer during the night. Blue collapsed beside the cot again, pressing his forehead against his mother's arm. "I didn't say goodbye," he whispered. "I didn't even say thank you."
Arin knelt opposite him. "Neither did I," he said quietly.
He reached out, placing his hand over Blue's, anchoring him. "Listen to me," Arin continued. "What happens next… you don't fight it. Not today."
Blue looked up sharply. "Why not?"
"Because today, fighting will only get you killed," Arin said. "And I won't lose you too."
Blue's lips trembled. "You can't protect me from everything."
Arin didn't answer. He already knew that.
When the patrol returned, they wrapped Pema's body in a gray sheet, moving with efficiency that bordered on cruelty. Blue turned away, burying his face in his hands. Arin stood motionless, watching until they carried her out the door and into the light.
A red symbol was painted onto their doorframe before the patrol left—marking death, disease, clearance.
Blue stared at it in horror. "They marked our house," he whispered. "What does that mean?"
"It means we're watched now," Arin replied. "It means we have to be careful."
The street slowly returned to its usual rhythm. Life did not stop. It never did.
By midday, the house felt empty in a way that had nothing to do with space. Blue sat in the corner, silent now, his anger collapsed inward. Arin moved through the room, gathering what little they owned, his movements mechanical.
"We're leaving," Arin said finally.
Blue looked up. "Where?"
"For now?" Arin replied. "Anywhere they don't expect us to be."
Blue stood slowly. "You said running without a plan is how you die."
Arin met his gaze. "Then this is me making a plan."
Blue searched his brother's face, seeing something new there—something sharper, darker, unyielding. "What if they stop us?"
"They will," Arin said. "Eventually."
Blue swallowed. "Then why go?"
Arin looked at the red mark on the door, then back at his brother. "Because staying means letting this city decide who we become."
Blue nodded slowly. Something inside him shifted again, settling into place like a blade sliding into its sheath.
As they stepped out into the street together, the walls of the first city loomed higher than ever, watching, waiting.
And far above those walls, unseen and unconcerned, the crowns of the powerful still shone—unaware that somewhere below, two broken heirs had just begun to move.
They did not leave immediately. Arin knew better than to rush into open streets while the patrol's presence still lingered in the air. Instead, he waited until the afternoon heat settled heavy and dull, when movement became sluggish and attention waned. The city had its rhythms, and Arin had learned to read them the way others once read clocks.
Blue sat silently near the doorway, his knees drawn to his chest, eyes fixed on the red mark painted beside the doorframe. Every time he looked at it, something inside him twisted—grief folding into anger, anger sharpening into memory. He rubbed at his face hard, as if he could scrub away the image of his mother being carried out wrapped in gray.
"She didn't even get a funeral," Blue muttered.
Arin tightened the strap of the small pack he had assembled. "Funerals are for people the system thinks matter," he said. "Here, survival replaces mourning."
"That's wrong," Blue snapped.
"I know," Arin replied. "That's why we're leaving."
Blue looked up at him then. "You really think we can?"
Arin paused, considering his words carefully. "I think staying guarantees what we become," he said. "Leaving only risks it."
Blue stood slowly. His legs trembled—not from fear alone, but from the weight of what was being asked of him. "And if we get caught?"
"Then we adapt," Arin said. "Or we fail."
Blue let out a shaky breath. "You say things like that so easily."
Arin met his gaze. "Because someone has to."
As dusk approached, the noise of the streets softened into a low murmur. Arin cracked the door open slightly, scanning the alley beyond. No patrols. No neighbors watching too closely. Just hunger and exhaustion moving past one another like ghosts.
"Stay close to me," Arin said.
Blue nodded, pulling his worn jacket tighter around himself.
They stepped outside together. The house behind them looked smaller than it ever had, as if it were already forgetting them. The red mark on the door glowed faintly in the dying light, a warning left for no one.
They moved quickly through narrow paths Arin knew well, slipping between broken structures and collapsed walls, avoiding main roads. Blue struggled to keep up, his shorter legs forcing him to half-run at times. Arin slowed without comment, adjusting his pace to match.
"Where are we going?" Blue whispered.
"Toward the service tunnels," Arin replied. "They connect old industrial zones. The patrols don't like going down there."
"Why?"
Arin didn't answer immediately. Then, "Because control gets harder underground."
That answer sent a strange thrill through Blue—fear mixed with something dangerously close to excitement. For the first time since his mother's death, his heart beat for something other than loss.
They reached a rusted access gate hidden behind collapsed debris. Arin pushed it open with effort, metal shrieking softly in protest. A dark stairwell descended below, swallowing light.
Blue hesitated at the edge. "Once we go down… we can't come back, can we?"
Arin looked at him steadily. "No."
Blue closed his eyes briefly, then stepped forward.
The gate closed behind them with a dull clang, sealing off the surface world. Above them, the first city continued its slow decay, unaware that two of its forgotten children had slipped beyond its reach.
Below, the darkness waited—silent, deep, and full of paths that led not only away from the city, but toward a future neither of them yet understood.
And somewhere in that darkness, the first cracks in the world's carefully built order were already beginning to spread.
The stairwell seemed to stretch endlessly downward, each step colder than the last. The air grew thick with dampness and rust, carrying the stale scent of a world long forgotten. Blue gripped the railing tightly, his fingers aching as he forced himself to keep moving. Every echo of their footsteps sounded too loud, as if the tunnels themselves were listening. Above them, the city felt impossibly distant now, reduced to a memory of walls, hunger, and red marks painted on doors.
Arin led the way without hesitation, though his jaw was set tight, his mind racing through possibilities he refused to voice. This was no longer just escape—it was a declaration. There would be no returning to the safety of routine, no hiding behind obedience. Each step downward stripped away another layer of the boy he had been, replacing it with something sharper, more deliberate. He thought of his mother, of her quiet strength, and silently promised that her sons would not fade into the dust of the first city like so many others.
Blue stumbled once, catching himself against the wall. Arin turned instantly, steadying him. Their eyes met in the darkness, and for the first time, there was no anger there—only fear shared and acknowledged. "I'm okay," Blue whispered, though his voice shook. Arin nodded, keeping his hand on Blue's arm a moment longer than necessary, as if anchoring them both to the same resolve.
At the bottom of the stairwell, the tunnel opened into a wide passage lined with broken pipes and flickering emergency lights that hadn't fully died yet. Water dripped steadily from the ceiling, each drop marking time in a place where clocks no longer mattered. Blue stared down the tunnel, his heart pounding. "It feels like the world ended down here," he said.
Arin shook his head slowly. "No," he replied. "It started."
They moved forward together, their figures shrinking as the tunnel swallowed them whole. Behind them, the surface world continued its quiet cruelty, unaware of the choice that had just been made beneath its feet. Ahead lay uncertainty, danger, and truths buried deeper than any city wall.
And as the lights flickered once, then steadied, the chapter closed not with escape, but with transformation—two brothers stepping into the dark, carrying grief, resolve, and the first sparks of something that would one day force the world above to look down and remember them.