Starless woke to the sound of rain tapping against plastic. The trash bag above him sagged with water, heavy and tired, like it might finally give up.
His eyes opened slowly, burning from lack of sleep. The cold had already soaked into his bones. Morning in this world did not feel new. It felt like punishment continuing.
He sat up and pulled on his black raincoat. It had once been waterproof. Now it was stiff with grime, torn at the sleeves, the fabric darkened by years of dirt and oil. It smelled faintly of rust and rot.
He zipped it halfway, the teeth catching, then forced it closed with numb fingers.
His shoes waited beside the mat. Black sports shoes, soles worn thin, holes torn open near the toes. Cold air slipped through them easily.
He slid his feet in anyway, tying the frayed laces with practiced hands. Wet socks. Always wet.
Outside, the dumpsite stretched endlessly. Broken metal, shattered screens, bags of rot and ash.
Somewhere far away, engines hummed and the city lived. Here, only survival mattered. This was the world as it was. Brutal. Unapologetic. It did not care if you woke up or not.
Starless picked up the shovel leaning against a pile of scrap and walked to the edge of the pit.
It was already deep, wide enough to swallow what needed burying. He dug for five hours without stopping.
Each strike of the shovel sent a dull shock up his arms. Mud clung to his boots. Sweat mixed with rain on his face. His stomach twisted and burned, empty and angry.
"I'm so hungry," he whispered at some point, the words barely louder than the rain. His hands shook. His vision blurred, but he kept digging. Hunger was normal. Stopping was dangerous.
When the pit was finally deep enough, he leaned on the shovel and looked up. A massive billboard towered beyond the wall of the dumpsite, clean and bright, untouched by filth. Light bled down from it, artificial and cruel.
Awakeners stood frozen in the image. Smiling. Powerful. Perfect. Text scrolled beneath them, promising glory, purpose, a future worth living. Join the academy. Become more.
Starless stared at it for a long time. His jaw tightened. His teeth bit down hard until his head ached. Slowly, his gaze dropped from the shining faces to the concrete wall below the billboard. Tall. Solid. Unclimbable.
He said nothing. The rain kept falling.
Starless crouched by the edge of the pit, dragging the corpses one by one. The mud clung to his hands, the smell of rot strong in his nose. His shoulders ached. His stomach growled.
How long will I stay a beggar, he thought. Even food's a problem nowadays. Every day is this same hunger. Every day is the same fight against nothing.
He shoveled soil over the bodies, letting the dirt cover them slowly. The pit filled inch by inch. His hands shook, his breath ragged. Rain fell in sheets, washing mud into the hollow he made.
He sighed and his mind wandered. Two weeks ago, he had been sitting beside the old man.
They had shared silence, broken only by the occasional caw of a crow. Then the old man had spoken, voice soft but certain.
"See all this kid? People call it a graveyard, but it's really just a transition. Everything here used to be something else—a prized toy, a sturdy chair, a fancy machine. Now it's just metal and plastic again.
You're doing the same thing. You're holding onto the shape of what you used to be, crying because that version of you broke. But look at these kids. They take a bent pipe and a tattered sheet and make a kite. They don't care what it was; they only care what they can make it do now.
Stop trying to be the machine that worked. Just be the parts. You'll find a way to fly again once you stop mourning the scrap."
Starless swallowed, his hands pausing mid-shovel. The words echoed in his head, quiet and unyielding.
Around him, rain and mud continued their slow assault. He looked at the pit, at the corpses, at the mud. The world was still cruel. Still indifferent.
Yet somewhere, deep inside, a spark whispered. Maybe he could start with the parts. Maybe he could find a way. One shovel at a time.
Starless slung the bag of scrap over his shoulder, the weight digging into his back.
He stepped carefully through the mud and debris, moving toward the city. Each step splashed in shallow puddles, water and grime soaking through the worn soles of his shoes.
He passed alleys and empty streets, searching the heaps of discarded metal and plastic along the way, gathering anything that might hold value.
Pieces of wire, broken gears, dented panels—all were added to the growing bag. Hours passed, rain and sun blending into a blur.
By the time he reached the city's edge, his bag was heavy and full. He adjusted it, walked forward, and the skyscrapers rose above him, cold and clean. Neon light flickered in the puddles.
Two girls stepped out of a bar, laughing, jewelry glinting on their necks and wrists. They noticed him. Starless looked at them, eyes tired. He lifted a hand in a small wave.
They stared back, faces soft with pity, their lips pressed together as if they wanted to smile but couldn't. Their eyes held disappointment, like seeing someone who should have tried harder, should have deserved better. Starless met their gaze for a moment, then turned away. He kept walking.
The recycling hub came into view. Its doors swung open with a faint hiss. Starless entered, shaking off the rain. He stepped to the counter.
Behind it stood a bald man, round-cheeked and smiling, his eyes lighting up as he saw Starless. "Star! How's the dumpsite treating you, son?"
Starless looked up, lips pressed tight. "Fine," he said, voice flat. He lowered his gaze and let out a quiet sigh.
He forced a small smile. "It's going well. The kids… everyone's fine."
Starless thought to himself. This old man doesn't know ityet.
He thought,mind humming silently.
He doesn't know I live in the dump. He doesn't know all the kids are dead. He doesn't need to know. He doesn't deserve to carry that worry. That stress… that weight. That's not for him. It's life. It's just… survival. I just have to survive. That's all.
Starless pushed the thought away and stepped forward, placing the bag on the counter.
His face stayed calm, smooth, a mask that held nothing, even while the storm of the world raged behind his eyes.
Starless walked back through the streets, the bag of scrap heavy on his shoulder. A few coins jingled in his pocket, enough to buy something to eat.
Neon lights faded behind him as he moved toward the darkness, leaving the city's glow behind.
He entered a small supermarket, the air warm, clean, and alien to him. He scanned the shelves quickly, grabbing a pair of shoes, some apples, three loaves of bread, and a packet of milk.
Everything felt expensive. Every touch reminded him of what he didn't have.
At the counter, a young female receptionist looked up. Her eyes softened the moment they met his. Pity and concern lingered in her gaze.
Starless handed over the coins. She didn't speak, just nodded, scanning his items. Her sympathy felt heavy but meaningless to him.
He stepped back into the street, carrying the bag now full of purchases.
The neon city behind him blinked and buzzed, a world of light and color he had no place in. Ahead, the darkness swallowed everything. The dumpsite waited.
He moved slowly, hands brushing the ground, running along old cars, searching for familiar shapes.
Mud squished under his shoes. The shadows were thick, cold, and unyielding. The neon receded until only night remained.
A crack opened in the clouds. The moon rose, pale and steady, spilling soft light across the heaps of trash. Starless followed it like a guide, tracing the way back to his small shelter.
The trash bag covering his home shivered in the wind. He slipped inside, stepping carefully over damp rags and broken boards. He sat down on a battered bucket, resting the bag beside him.
He took the apple and bread out. He ate one loaf slowly, washing it down with a sip of milk. Hunger faded, if only for a moment.
His eyes fell on the shoes. Clean, whole, new. He smiled quietly. "These… look great," he whispered. "Tomorrow… I work hard, look for scrap, try to move on."
He leaned back, small and still, the moonlight on his face, darkness surrounding him. Survival was all that mattered tonight.
Starless finally lay down on his thin mat, the damp rags pressing against his skin. His bag of scraps rested nearby, the loaf of bread finished, the milk drained. He curled slightly, pulling the edges of the trash bag over himself like a fragile shield against the cold.
The night was silent inside the dumpsite. Only the distant drip of water from torn tarps and the occasional scuttle of rats broke the stillness.
Starless closed his eyes, letting exhaustion pull him under, even as the ache in his stomach lingered.
Above him, the sky stretched endlessly, a vast, dark canvas. Stars struggled through the clouds, faint points of light in the weight of night.
The dumpsite spread below like a jagged, chaotic mosaic, heaps of garbage and broken metal stretching as far as the eye could see.
Beyond the walls, the neon city pulsed with life.
Flying cars traced glowing paths through the sky, lights flickering and reflecting in the puddles.
Skyscrapers reached upward, towers of steel and glass alive with buzzing energy. The world was vast. Bright. Indifferent.
Starless breathed slowly, listening to the contrast the quiet of his darkness, the hum of their light.
He let himself drift, small and alone, tucked in the wreckage of his world, waiting for another day.