The slums didn't sleep.
They decayed while pretending to live.
Tin roofs trembled under the wind—not violently, not loudly—just enough to remind everything beneath them that nothing here was stable.
Not the walls.
Not the ground.
Not the people.
The air was thick.
Breathed too many times by too many people who couldn't afford to stop.
The boy stood near the doorway.
Bare feet against damp wood.
A rusted nail pressed against his heel.
He didn't move away from it.
Pain was easier when it stayed small.
Behind him, his father adjusted the collar of a shirt that had once been white.
"Stand properly."
His voice wasn't harsh.
Just tired.
Tired in a way that sleep no longer fixed.
The boy straightened slightly.
"And don't stare," his father said.
"You'll make it worse."
Worse.
The word settled into the room like smoke.
The boy didn't ask what it meant.
He already knew.
Across from him, his sister sat curled beside the wall.
Her knees pressed tightly against her chest.
Her fingers dug into her skin hard enough to leave crescent marks.
She used to hum when she was nervous.
Now she stayed silent.
"Appa…"
Her voice shook.
"Please… I don't want to go."
"Enough."
His father still didn't look at her.
He stared at the floorboards instead.
"I told you already," he muttered.
"We don't get to want things."
Silence followed.
Heavy.
Breathing itself felt disrespectful.
Then came a knock.
Nobody answered.
The door opened anyway.
A man stepped inside.
Clean shoes.
Clean fingernails.
The smell of perfume buried beneath cigarette smoke.
He looked wrong inside this room.
Like something expensive dropped into sewage.
His eyes swept across the house once.
"Smells worse than I expected."
The father forced out a laugh.
It collapsed halfway through.
"Conditions aren't exactly improving."
The man ignored him.
His attention had already shifted.
Toward the girl.
She froze.
Not because she didn't understand.
Because she did.
"Is this the one?"
Casual.
Careless.
Like he was buying meat.
The father gave a slow nod.
"She'll do."
The girl's breathing turned uneven.
Her nails broke skin.
A thin line of blood slid down her arm.
"Money first," the father said quietly.
The man sighed as if inconvenienced.
He pulled folded notes from his pocket and tossed them.
They landed beside the boy's feet.
Nobody moved at first.
Then his father stepped forward.
His hand hovered above the money.
Shaking.
Not from hesitation.
From shame.
"Appa… please…"
His sister sounded younger suddenly.
Not like a girl.
Like a child.
His father shut his eyes.
Only for a moment.
"Sorry."
He picked up the money.
The boy watched silently.
Not confused.
Not shocked.
Just learning.
Learning that hunger could hollow people out until there was nothing left inside them except survival.
This wasn't unusual.
This was normal.
This—
was the price of breathing.
The man walked toward the girl.
She tried to pull away.
There was nowhere to go.
"Don't make this difficult," he said.
"Please…"
Her voice cracked.
"I'll do anything else."
"There is nothing else."
The boy's fingers curled.
A tiny movement.
Instinct more than courage.
Then he forced his hand still.
Because resistance here didn't stop pain.
It only invited more of it.
The room blurred after that.
Fabric shifting.
Muffled sounds.
The weak rattle of the ceiling fan overhead.
At some point, his sister stopped speaking.
Then she stopped making noise entirely.
"Already?"
The man sounded annoyed.
"Pathetic."
Footsteps approached.
The man stopped in front of the boy and looked down at him.
"You'll understand someday."
The boy met his eyes.
For the first time, he didn't look away.
Not defiance.
Not bravery.
Recognition.
He already understood.
The door opened.
Then closed.
Silence returned.
But not the same silence.
His father crouched near the corner and counted the money twice.
Like recounting it might somehow make it worth more.
"Appa…"
The boy's voice sounded dry from disuse.
His father froze.
A tear slipped free before he could stop it.
Then he stood and pressed the money into the boy's hand.
"Go buy food later," he said.
"For both of you."
The boy looked at the notes.
Then at his father.
"Does it stay like this forever?"
For a second, his father almost answered.
Then he turned away.
"Stay here."
The door creaked shut behind him.
The boy waited.
A minute.
Maybe longer.
Something felt wrong.
He stepped outside.
The alley stretched ahead.
Long.
Narrow.
Overflowing with people too exhausted to notice one another.
Ahead of him—
his father.
"Wait."
The boy followed.
He watched his father bow before another man.
Watched his shoulders shake.
"Just a little more," his father begged.
"Please. They haven't eaten in two days."
The man turned slowly.
"I already paid you."
"Please…"
His father stepped forward.
Hands trembling.
Eyes wet.
The shove came suddenly.
Effortless.
For one terrible second, his father's body lingered at the edge.
Caught between falling…
and trying not to.
Then gravity decided for him.
A wet crack echoed through the alley.
The crowd gathered slowly.
Not out of concern.
Just curiosity.
The boy walked forward.
Slowly.
Because somewhere deep inside himself, he had already known what he would find.
The body on the ground barely resembled his father anymore.
One arm bent the wrong way.
Blood spreading beneath his head.
Eyes open toward a sky too grey to care.
The boy stood over him.
No tears came.
He waited instead.
For grief.
For anger.
For something.
Nothing arrived.
And if his father had one final thought left inside him, perhaps it was this:
God…
Are you watching?
Is this what you made?
I sold my daughter just so they could eat.
And this…
this is the answer?
Nothing?
You don't exist—
or worse…
You do.
"Hey!"
A man rushed over and crouched beside the body.
"I saw what happened. He's still breathing."
The boy looked at him silently.
"Hospital's nearby," the man continued quickly.
"But treatment costs money."
His eyes dropped to the notes in the boy's hand.
"That enough?"
The boy stared at the money.
Something weak and unfamiliar flickered inside his chest.
Not hope.
Something smaller.
Something desperate enough to imitate it.
He handed over the notes.
The man grabbed them and ran.
The boy didn't move.
Didn't call after him.
Because some part of him had already decided the ending before it happened.
The next morning, hunger returned.
Like nothing had happened.
Like nothing ever did.
"…Anna…"
The voice was faint.
The boy opened his eyes.
His sister lay exactly where he had left her.
Curled tightly beneath the thin blanket.
Like she was trying to keep herself from falling apart.
Her lips were cracked.
Her breathing shallow.
"I'm… hungry…"
The words barely escaped her throat.
The boy watched quietly.
Hunger didn't care about grief.
Didn't care about humiliation.
Didn't care what had been taken from people the day before.
It always returned.
Demanding.
Patient.
Certain.
"Wait here," he whispered.
Not a promise.
A decision.
He stepped outside.
The shop near the corner glowed with warm light.
Clean windows.
Fresh bread.
A different world behind thin glass.
The boy slipped inside.
A loaf sat near the counter.
Still warm.
His fingers closed around it.
Then someone grabbed his wrist.
"Thief."
Another hand struck his face.
"Filthy brat."
Pain came fast after that.
Familiar.
Efficient.
"You people never change."
Blows knocked him to the floor.
Boots slammed into his ribs.
Then darkness swallowed the rest.
Inside the shop, the owner stood before a glowing religious image.
Head bowed.
Hands clasped.
"Thank you," he whispered.
"Your justice is absolute."
Outside, the boy lay motionless in the dirt.
Breathing.
Barely.
And somewhere far above—
something watched.
Smiling.
END OF CHAPTER ONE