The slum didn't sleep, not quite. Even when the sky outside turned a soot gray color and the city towers behind the concrete walls went dark, the slum vibrated with gentle breathing, snoring, the groan of improvised cots, far-off coughing, someone cursing in their dreams.
He hadn't slept. He had just stared.
Now, at the grey dawn mist, he watched.
All here—this mud-hued town of tents, twisted metal sheeting, and splintered crates—swayed to a rhythm he had not known yesterday.
But today, he was discovering it. The boy wasn't given a name here, and that seemed fitting. Names were commodity in the slum, and he had no money to invest.
He sat at the edge of a broken plastic pallet on the corner near a tipped-over barrel that still reeked faintly of charred oil.
From where he was, he could watch the soup line grow like a slow stream of ants toward the Center Pavilion—a fairytale roof of taped-tarp over a rusty metal skeleton.
The slum's sole official building, if one could call anything official here.
That was when the yelling began.
Two adult men charged into the clearing, their coats too spotless, their boots too intact for here.
One of them was bald with a scar that began behind his ear and disappeared under his collar.
The other had white hair and eyes that swept with mechanical accuracy.
They weren't soup guards. Soup guards didn't look that spotless. These two were something else.
And someone was running.
A boy—skinny, quick, with moss-colored hair and the eyes of a person who had mastered running many years before he had mastered this walking thing—rushed through the crowd, something clutched in his fist. He looked 11-12 years old.
The clean men were behind him.
He sprinted by the my pallet, looked back, and watched the two grown-ups getting closer. His gaze darted to the me—desperation, strategy, and trust condensed into an instant.
A hope for affection from this fellow slum mate, this was what I wanted.
Not because I was desperate for love, he isn't that dumb. It was something else, something more necessary.
I stood there. Waiting for a some kind of opportunity.
Then I saw it, opportunity!
I tossed the barrel behind him just in time as the boy running slipped around it.
The barrel thudded down with a resounding clang, and when the two grown-ups turned the corner, what they saw was me, lounging on the pallet, patting dirt into his face so as to be less conspicuous.
They stopped. The one who was bald moved forward and clutched at my shirt.
"See a rat pass this way?" he growled, his bad breath reeking of cheap booze and something else—rotten meat.
I immediately shook my head, my eyes wide with fear, as I fought not to cringe at my fake acting. I wasn't even trying hard to fool this dumbos.
The pale-haired man searched around. He shook his head after a few tense seconds. "Gone. He had a head start. Let's continue searching."
They vanished down a different alley of tents. Not paying much attention to me, a newcomer.
After a moment, the coast was clear, the barrel rattled, and the boy poked out, panting but grinning.
"You're not dumb," he said. "Most people would have snitched. I have started to like you a bit. "
He extended a grimy but firm hand. "I'm Mika."
Kurai didn't react immediately. Eventually, he simply nodded.
"Don't wanna give your name, huh?" Mika shrugged. "Smart. Might stay with you then. Smart people don't last long alone."
---
By noon, the soup line had doubled. The sun had pierced the smog over the slum, illuminating a yellowish sick light that sent shafts through the metal buildings and made them shine like contagion.
Mika showed him how it was done.
"Rule one: Don't cut the line. Rule two: Have something to put it in—a bowl, a can, a mug, whatever. They don't give you nothing unless you got something to put it in."
Kurai had nothing in his hand, obviously result of not knowing the second rule before.
Mika gave him a cracked wooden bowl. "Use mine. I'll get you through once. After that, you're on your own."
He took it, his hands shaking.
Mika went on to say, "And don't look at the Ashers. They dangle near the soup. See them?
The MC gazed. Three boys leaned against a support column by the pavilion. One of them wasn't supposed to have arms—just sleeves pinned at the elbow. But for some reason, he was the one who was avoided.
"That's Vash. The Armless Prince. Don't ask. Don't stare."
The line edged forward. The MC held the bowl and endeavored not to worry about the ache in his stomach. He hadn't eaten since yesterday morning—before the alley, before the truck, before here. His ribs ached when he breathed.
At last, he came to the front. A one-eyed woman with soot-covered gloves scooped a thick grey-brown paste into his bowl.
The MC stepped back from the line, but that was as far as he made it.
A foot kicked out and sent him crashing to the ground. Half of the soup fell, but thankfully Kurai managed to safe half of it.
"Whoops," said a voice like broken glass.
Asher junior, the leader of Ashers gang, loomed over him, with two other boys beside him. One was enormous, with ropey arms and a lazy smile, Kollin. The other had was cold looking silent boy, Vash they call him.
Asher grinned. "You're new-looking."
Kurai did not answer.
"Know the toll?"
Without giving Kurai time to say anything, Asher crouched down and, with only his shoulders and an odd contortion of his body, picked up the bowl. The big boy next to him carefully scooped it up and held it as if it were treasure.
"We eat first, you eats scraps. That's the law," Asherp declared.
He snatched the bowl from Kurai, drank it all and threw the bowl on ground.
"Next time, come over to pay respect first newbie. Or losing some soup won't be the only thing you would be losing" He and Kollin started to laugh out loud.
The three of them turned.
Kurai stared after them. His eyes were dark..but he didn't bore any feeling of revenge. Revenge was for weak. Smart people only destroy those, who comes in their way.
His chain of thoughtts broke, as hi stomach twisted in pain, part hunger, part rage.
---
Mika found him few minutes later.
"Let me guess—Ashers got you."
I nodded.
Mika sighed. "Yeah. They do that. You'll get better at avoiding them. Or you can pat respect to them too, but that's what weak people do."
I didn't answer. My mind was already leaving the conversation. Hunger had taken over.
---
He walked for hours. Down rusted alleys, by tents taped up with old shirts and plastic bags. Now and then, he caught a glimpse of people—some sleeping, some talking to themselves, some gazing into space.
Food. Anything. He had to have something.
He walked by the trash area—more mountain than pile. People sifted through it with sticks or their hands. He watched one man retrieve a broken egg, smell it, and consume it raw.
He looked there next.
Rotten bread. Moldy apples. A dead rat. Nothing.
And then—
Behind a tipped-over bucket, under a pile of discarded filters and wrappers, he saw it.
A sausage.
Wrapped in clear plastic, grease-soiled but complete. Half-eaten but intact enough to be worth something.
He glanced around.
Nobody.
He snatched it. Hide it in his clothes and went to a secluded corner. If anyone else saw it, they would go crazy.
Who in slums didn't carved delicious meat? It wouldn't be too hard to steal from a 7-8 year old child.
After getting in a secluded corner, he Unwrapped it. Cold and with a slight trace of garlic and smoke. He didn't care.
He brought it to his lips.
Then he stopped.
Eyes.
Staring.
Purple light.
Not muddy violet or reddish-brown.
Pure, piercing, sharp purple eyes.
They gazed at him from the shadows between two leaning crates, motionless, unblinking.
The MC did not breathe.
The sausage shook in his hand shook.
The eyes didn't blink.
Didn't talk.
Didn't avert their gaze.
But one thing was clear... He wasn't going to get his things, unless it was a life and death moment.