Running. Zero could do nothing else but run in this labyrinth of trash, surrounded by makeshift houses made of used wood and rusty metal plates. Crowds of hopeless humans gather on every corner, gathering like dirty rats and idling for no reason.
As to why he was running, he did not know. Only a feeling that he must keep going, farther and farther from the tail he was having and following the voice in from of him.
He ran as fast as he could, following the blurry image of a person who was holding his hand in front of him. A familiar entity yet she couldn't discern it. Every time he focused on the person's blurry face, his head would ache and the voices behind him would catch up.
As the pain got stronger, his pace got slower, giving reason for the pursuers to catch up. Then hands crept from behind him, dragging him further away from the person in front of him as the voices got louder yet vague. Until everything went pitch black, erasing the scene of the old slum.
