Chapter 1 – Survival Weekend
The city felt quieter on weekends.
At least, it did—if you weren't counting time in deliveries.
Lucien Crowley didn't have that luxury.
Saturday morning began at six. The alarm cut through the silence of the small rented apartment, sharp and impatient. Lucien sat up slowly, muscles already tight, careful not to make noise. His mother had come home late again. Sleep was rare for her now. Fragile. He treated it like glass.
He dressed the way he always did.
Muted colors. Nothing that stood out.
A gray hoodie.
Faded jeans.
Worn sneakers.
Looking poor invited judgment. Looking confident invited questions. He preferred neither.
Outside, the air was cold and sharp. His scooter waited near the curb—old, scratched, but reliable. Lucien checked the tires out of habit, adjusted the mirror, secured his backpack. Inside were delivery slips, neatly organized, and a simple lunch he'd packed the night before.
No extras.
No waste.
The courier warehouse was already loud when he arrived.
"Crowley. North sector."
Mr. Howard Blake didn't bother looking up from his clipboard. "Move fast. No delays."
"Yes, sir."
Lucien signed in and moved on.
To Blake, he was efficient labor. Quiet. Replaceable.
That was fine.
Being noticed usually came with expectations. Expectations were expensive.
Nearby, Nina Torres scanned packages, her fingers moving fast. "North again?" she asked.
Lucien nodded.
She studied him for half a second. "Don't overdo it."
Ryan Cole leaned against a crate, phone in hand. "Weekend shift again, Crowley? That's rough."
Lucien didn't answer. He loaded his first batch and left.
Words didn't deliver packages.
By seven, he was already deep into the city.
North sector was dense—apartment towers packed close together, offices stacked above cafés, private residences tucked behind guarded entrances. Lucien planned his route the way he always did. Link stops. Cut backtracking. Save minutes where others lost them.
He remembered things most people ignored.
Which buildings had broken elevators.
Which security desks asked questions.
Which customers valued speed over politeness.
He didn't just deliver.
He optimized.
Hours passed. The city fully woke. Traffic thickened. Noise rose. Lucien adjusted without thinking, his body moving on habit while his mind stayed sharp.
Lunch came standing on a sidewalk. One protein bar. Water from a reused bottle.
Nearby, students laughed freely, coffee cups in hand, dressed without a second thought about cost. Their voices drifted through the air, light and unburdened.
Lucien didn't resent them.
Places like this weren't unfamiliar. He recognized the posture. The confidence. The way people spoke when money wasn't something they calculated every hour. He had grown up around it once.
That familiarity made standing outside it now feel heavier than ignorance ever could.
Weekends followed the same math. Ten to twelve hours on the streets for pay that barely covered necessities. It wasn't generous.
But it mattered.
The money went toward rent. Food. Utilities. Toward easing the weight his mother carried without complaint.
That was enough.
As he passed a café near Northbridge University, his pace slowed—just slightly.
Laughter spilled out through open doors. Easy. Careless.
His fingers tightened around the straps of his delivery bag. The sound felt distant. Like it belonged to a different version of him.
Lucien moved on.
Pausing had a cost.
By afternoon, fatigue settled deep into his shoulders. Packages felt heavier. Customers moved slower. Some demanded signatures. Others patience.
Lucien waited when he had to. Left when he could. Never complained.
Don't waste time, Blake's voice echoed in his head.
The sun dipped low by the time Lucien completed his final delivery. Streetlights flickered on as he returned to the warehouse.
Nina glanced up. Gave a short nod. "Good work."
Ryan didn't look up from his phone.
Lucien signed out and left.
The ride home was quiet. Neon lights blurred past as exhaustion seeped into his bones. When he reached the apartment, responsibility followed him inside like a second shadow.
The lights were dim.
"Mother…" he started.
She raised a hand gently. "Don't say anything."
She sat at the small table. Paperwork stacked neatly. Dinner kept warm despite the late hour. Her eyes looked tired. More than usual.
"I'm sorry," she said softly. "For this life. For everything you have to carry."
Lucien shook his head. "It's fine."
She smiled faintly. "You shouldn't have to say that."
He didn't argue.
Words didn't fix reality. Effort did.
Later, alone in his room, Lucien sat on the edge of the bed. The space was simple. Too simple. One side remained untouched. Preserved.
There were questions he'd learned not to ask.
His father was one of them.
There had been relatives once. Gatherings. Polite smiles. Promises to stay in touch. When everything collapsed, those connections disappeared quietly.
No calls.
No messages.
Not from his father's side.
Not from his mother's.
Silence had replaced family.
Lucien lay back, staring at the ceiling.
His body hurt.
His mind didn't rest.
Survival was the one thing he could control. Everything else—the world, the people, the expectations—was just noise.
Tomorrow, the weekend would end.
Tomorrow, Northbridge University would begin again. The pretending. The careful silence. The constant calculations.
And Lucien Crowley would endure.