Morning doesn't rise in Sector Eleven. It crawls.
The light that slips through the smog feels old, as if the sun itself is tired of looking at this place.
Aren Vale wakes to the metallic hum of the purifier fans, each whirring breath a reminder that the air outside could kill him. The walls of his home — once part of an old Ascendancy housing block — are patched with scrap metal and hope.
From the next room, his mother's voice hums softly. Lira Vale.
Her song is one of the few beautiful things left in this sector.
His little sister, Nira, sleeps curled beside him, clutching a cloth star she made from discarded rations wrappers.
She dreams of real ones — stars that shine, not the flickering neon that lights their streets.
Aren watches her for a long moment before rising. His father, Daren, has already left for the pumps — where men trade years of life for a few more credits.
The sky outside is gray. The city stretches endlessly, half-alive, half-dead. Drones buzz overhead, scanning the alleys where the poor pretend not to exist.
Aren tightens his scavenger gloves.
Another day. Another dive into the Ruinfold.