I wake up already tired.
Not the kind of tired that sleep fixes. The kind that sits in my bones and makes every movement feel like a negotiation. My stomach is empty again. It always is. Hunger has stopped being sharp—it's learned patience. It waits.
I sit up slowly inside the shed. The wood creaks. Dust falls from the roof. For a moment, I panic, heart racing, waiting for footsteps, for shouting.
Nothing comes.
That's how I know it's morning.
I don't think about yesterday. Thinking hurts. Thinking makes the ache heavier. I focus on what matters.
Food. Water. Not being seen.
---
Stealing isn't something I decided to do.
It just… happened.
The first time, my hands shook so badly I nearly dropped what I took. A piece of dried food left unattended near a stall. The smell pulled me closer before my mind could catch up. When my fingers closed around it, I felt something twist in my chest—not guilt, not relief.
Fear.
I ran until my lungs burned.
Now, days later, the fear is still there—but it's quieter. Familiar. Like a dull echo instead of a scream.
I move early, when adults are distracted and children are either asleep or pretending not to be. I stick to places where no one expects a threat. A child like me doesn't register as danger. At best, I'm a nuisance.
At worst, I'm prey.
---
I'm crouched near a vendor's discarded crates when I hear laughter.
Children.
I freeze.
There are three of them. Clean clothes. Full faces. They move with the careless confidence of people who belong. One of them points.
"Hey," he says. "Isn't that the thief?"
My chest tightens.
I don't look up. Looking up makes it worse.
I turn to leave.
Something hits my shoulder.
It doesn't hurt much. But it stops me.
"Running again?" another voice says. Closer now. "Figures."
They surround me easily. Not fast—just certain. I back up until my shoulder hits wood. The crate behind me shifts.
I drop the food.
I don't know why. Maybe I think if I give it up, they'll let me go.
They don't.
One of them kicks it away. Another laughs. A third steps closer, close enough that I can smell soap and warmth and something like bread.
"You always steal," he says. "You think that's fair?"
I want to speak. I don't know what to say.
My throat tightens. My hands curl into fists I don't know how to use.
"I'm hungry," I manage.
They laugh harder.
---
From the outside, it doesn't look like much.
Just children. Just words. Just a shove.
But when the first push comes, I lose my balance immediately. My body is too light. Too weak. I hit the ground hard. My palms scrape. The shock steals my breath.
Something hits my ribs. Then my back.
I curl in on myself without thinking.
That's when the world narrows.
I hear insults, but they blur together. Thief. Trash. Rat. Each word lands, not because it's clever, but because it confirms something I already fear.
I don't fight back.
Not because I'm kind. Not because I'm moral.
Because I don't know how.
The boy on the ground doesn't cry out. He makes himself small, arms locked around his head, knees drawn tight. He doesn't look at them. He doesn't beg.
That unsettles them more than resistance would have.
---
I don't know how long it lasts.
Time does strange things when pain and fear mix. Eventually, footsteps approach—heavier ones. Adult ones.
"Oi."
The voice is sharp. Annoyed.
The children scatter instantly, muttering excuses, fear replacing bravado.
I stay curled on the ground.
I don't move.
I wait for the next blow.
---
"Get up."
I flinch.
Slowly, carefully, I uncurl. My hands shake. My vision blurs at the edges. I look at the ground instead of the person standing over me.
"Stealing again?" the voice asks.
I nod.
It feels pointless to lie.
There's a pause.
I expect anger. Punishment. Maybe being dragged somewhere I don't want to go.
Instead, I hear a sigh.
"Idiots," the man mutters—not at me.
I risk a glance.
He's tall. Wears a forehead protector. A chunin, maybe. His expression isn't kind, but it isn't cruel either. It's… tired.
"You're bleeding," he says.
I look down. My hands are scraped raw. My ribs ache when I breathe.
"I'm fine," I say quickly.
The lie is automatic.
---
He studies me in silence.
That makes me more nervous than shouting would.
"You've been around here a lot," he says finally. "Always hungry. Always hiding."
My heart stutters.
I didn't realize anyone noticed.
"I don't belong anywhere," I say before I can stop myself.
The words feel heavy once they're out.
For a moment, he just looks at me.
Something unreadable passes through his eyes.
"Come on," he says. "Standing out here won't help you."
I hesitate.
Every instinct I have screams don't follow adults. Adults decide things for you. Adults take authority you never get back.
But hunger is louder.
I follow—two steps behind, never closer.
---
As we walk, I notice things without trying to.
How people straighten when they see him.
How conversations lower.
How no one questions his presence.
Authority.
It presses down on the air itself.
I hate how my body reacts—how part of me wants to obey without question.
I remember another life. Not clearly. Just the feeling of it.
Giving authority away.
Letting others choose.
Ending up with nothing.
My jaw tightens.
---
He stops near a quieter street. Turns to face me.
"You're sharp," he says suddenly. "Not strong. Not trained. But sharp."
I don't know what to say.
"I've seen kids like you," he continues. "Most don't last long."
The words should scare me.
They don't.
They feel honest.
"What's your name?" he asks.
I open my mouth.
Nothing comes out.
I realize, with a strange hollow feeling, that I don't know what to answer.
He watches my face carefully.
"Right," he says after a moment. "Figures."
Another pause.
"You want to keep stealing scraps," he says, "or do you want a better way?"
My heart pounds.
This feels like a choice.
And I'm terrified of choices.
---
I don't answer.
Not yet.
But for the first time since I woke up in this world, someone is looking at me not as trash, not as prey—but as something unfinished.
Something usable.
Something that might grow.
I don't know his name yet.
But I know this moment matters.