A sudden hush rippled through the café, subtle at first, like a breath held too long. Arin felt it before he understood it—the way conversations thinned, the way laughter dipped into murmurs. He lifted his eyes from the cup just as the door opened. Heat rushed in with the figures that entered, not warmth, but a sharp, suffocating presence that made the walls feel closer. They were dressed plainly, almost like workers, yet there was something in the way they moved—unhurried, certain, as if the space already belonged to them. Lbow noticed it too, his fingers tightening around his cup. "Trouble," he muttered under his breath, not fearful, just wary.
The men did not order. They stood near the counter, eyes scanning the room with practiced indifference. One of them laughed softly, a sound without humor, and Arin felt a familiar tension coil in his chest. He had seen this before—in City 1, in back alleys where debts were collected not with words but with fists and fire. The café owner stiffened, wiping the same spot on the counter again and again, his smile brittle. "We paid last week," the man said quickly, his voice trembling despite his effort to sound firm. One of the newcomers leaned forward, resting his elbows on the counter. "And this week exists too," he replied calmly.
Arin looked away, jaw clenched. This was the world beneath the shining towers, the world that breathed fire quietly, feeding on the weak. Lbow shifted in his seat. "We should go," he whispered, glancing toward the door. But Arin didn't move. His eyes followed the exchange as the café owner fumbled for a small pouch, his hands shaking. Coins spilled onto the counter, clinking like tiny screams. The man counted them slowly, then shook his head. "Not enough," he said, almost gently. A woman at a nearby table gasped, pulling her child closer.
Something snapped inside Arin—not loudly, not dramatically, but with the sharp finality of a thread breaking. He stood up. Lbow grabbed his sleeve. "Arin, don't," he warned, his voice low and urgent. Arin pulled free. He walked toward the counter, every step heavy, deliberate. The men turned, surprised more than threatened. "Leave him alone," Arin said, his voice steady but burning underneath. The room froze. For a moment, no one breathed.
One of the men smiled, amused. "And who are you?" he asked. Arin didn't answer immediately. He thought of City 4's gates, of polished floors that rejected him, of his mother's coughing breaths, of Blue's silent anger. "Someone who's tired," he said finally. The smile faded. The air thickened. Lbow rose slowly behind him, fear etched across his face, but also loyalty. The man at the counter straightened, hope flickering dangerously in his eyes.
The leader stepped closer, his voice dropping. "You don't know how this ends," he said. Arin met his gaze without flinching. "I do," he replied. "It ends the way everything does when people stop kneeling." Outside, the city roared on, unaware. Inside the café, something had shifted—small, fragile, and irreversible. And as the first chair scraped loudly against the floor, it became clear that Arin's path had truly diverged, not toward glass towers or quiet acceptance, but toward a fire that would either consume him or forge him into something the walls could no longer contain.
The first blow never landed.
Before fists could fly, before the fragile courage in the room could be crushed, a sharp metallic click sliced through the tension. One of the men had drawn a weapon—not raised, not pointed, merely revealed, resting casually against his thigh as if it were an extension of his hand. The message was clear. The café owner's face drained of color, and the woman with the child began to cry quietly, pressing the boy's head into her chest. Lbow stepped closer to Arin, his voice shaking despite his effort to steady it. "This isn't worth dying for," he whispered. Arin did not look back. His eyes were locked on the man with the weapon, not with fear, but with a cold understanding of how the world truly worked.
The leader exhaled slowly, irritated now rather than amused. "Sit down," he said, his tone no longer playful. "Heroes don't live long in City 2." Arin felt the truth of those words settle into his bones. He knew this wasn't the battle to fight—not here, not now. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his hands and stepped back. The room seemed to breathe again, relief washing over faces that moments ago had been bracing for blood. The men took the pouch of coins, added a few cups knocked to the floor for emphasis, and turned toward the door. As they left, the leader paused and glanced over his shoulder at Arin. "Fire like yours," he said quietly, "either changes the world… or gets extinguished early."
The door shut behind them, and the café collapsed into shaken whispers. The owner sank onto a stool, trembling, gratitude and fear warring in his eyes as he nodded at Arin. No words came—none were needed. Lbow released a breath he seemed to have been holding since the men entered. "You could've been killed," he said, anger and relief tangled together. Arin finally looked at him then, his expression unreadable. "So could he," Arin replied, glancing toward the owner. "So could anyone who keeps living like this." Lbow had no answer to that.
They left the café soon after, stepping back into the restless streets of City 2. The sun was lower now, casting long shadows that stretched like bars across the road. Arin walked in silence, his mind racing. The rejection of City 4, the rot beneath City 2, the false comfort of City 3—it all formed a single, brutal picture. Walls were not just built of metal and law; they were enforced with fear, hunger, and fire. And for the first time, Arin understood something with terrifying clarity: brilliance alone would never tear those walls down.
As they reached the edge of the district, Lbow stopped. "Come with me," he said softly. "To City 3. Just for a while. You don't have to fight everything alone." Arin hesitated. The offer was sincere, the escape real. For a heartbeat, the idea of warmth without struggle tempted him. Then he thought of City 1—of Pema's weakening breath, of Blue growing sharp-edged with resentment, of countless others crushed quietly every day. He shook his head. "I can't leave," he said. "Not anymore."
They parted there, not as enemies, but as men whose paths could no longer run side by side. Arin turned back toward the road leading home, the dust rising around his feet like smoke from a slow-burning flame. He no longer believed in institutions or mercy from above. What had awakened in him was darker, heavier—and far more dangerous. The walls of the cities still stood tall, unbroken, breathing fire into the lives beneath them.