"I am going to die," I say as an explosion blows the wall next to me into rubble and dust.

"I'm going to die," I say as I run out from my hiding spot, knife in hand, ready to kill anyone I might see.

"I'm going to die," I say as I rush towards someone holding a gun. They haven't noticed me yet—now was my chance. I run, I jump, he finally notices me, but it's too late. I stab him in the neck. As the surge of adrenaline courses through me, I take the knife out and stab him in the head repeatedly. Finally, he falls to the ground, not responding. I look at my notifications and see that I've gained over a thousand credits. I grab the gun the man was holding and rush towards a wall, hiding behind it before checking my new weapon—a pistol. It only has six bullets, and there are at least fourteen people left before the match is over. Hopefully, this is enough. Please, if there is a god somewhere out there, let this be enough...

I take a breath to calm my nerves. I look at the gun. "Six bullets." I look at the leaderboard. "Fourteen... no, twelve! Contestants already!" I exclaim in shock. I finally look at my system and see that I've accumulated over 6,322 credits. "This is the most credits I've ever had in my entire life! With this... with this, I can finally escape the slums!" I think to myself. "If I have this many, imagine how much the other contestants have by now!" If I can take them out, I'd be rich—no, I'd be the richest in the Ninth Circle!

With this thought in mind, my blood pumps with excitement. "I can do this, I can..." I keep saying it like a mantra, like a prayer. It's time to make my move. I rush out of my hiding spot and run towards a building that hasn't completely crumbled yet. The windows are open, but I don't see or hear anyone inside, and the radar isn't picking anything up. I decide against opening the front door. Instead, I'll go through the window and head to the bathroom—it'll probably have the most cover, and at most, only one window.

I start making my way towards the bathroom, which is on the other side of the house by the looks of it. I move through the kitchen, using the tables and chairs as cover until I reach the bathroom door, which has an "Occupied" sign hanging from it.

I touch the handle of the bathroom door and slowly turn it until it's unlocked. Then I carefully open the door. When it's a quarter of the way open, I hear a click, and before I can react, an explosion knocks me back, making me hit my head against the wall. I lay there writhing in pain for a second before my vision blacks out, as a loud ringing continues in my ears.

...

9:30 PM, 9th Ring in the "Slums"

"You got beat up again, Vyke?" said a concerned voice.

"I don't want to talk about it," I say with surprising difficulty. They're not usually this rough; I must have pissed them off extra today.

"I keep telling you to stay away from the junkyard, it's not safe!" the concerned voice sighs before reaching his hand out to me. "Come on, let's go back to the shop so I can patch you up."

I look at his hand for a second, then reach towards it. He picks me up, puts me over his shoulders, and starts walking towards the Ratchet Crew's Auto Repair Shop. "I can walk, Ratchet. You don't have to carry me," I say, only for him to ignore me.

"Vyke, if you don't shut your mouth, I'm going to staple it shut. So quiet down before I give you another black eye!" he says, his voice a little harsher than before.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Like you have the guts to hit me!" I say, trying to provoke him, which apparently works. He stops walking, looks at me for a second, and I can feel his grip on me tighten briefly, only for it to loosen again as he shakes his head and continues walking.

"Vyke, you're going to get yourself killed if you keep provoking people that try to help you."

"I don't need help, I need credits!" I raise my voice at him, to which he calmly responds, "You can't make credits if you're dead, so shut up every once in a while when someone's trying to help you."

I mimic his voice in a mocking tone, which he responds to by poking my now crooked nose, which hurts quite badly.

"Ow, you asshole, I was just joking!" I yell at him.

Once we make it to the auto repair shop, he opens the door and says, "Hey Arny, I'm back! Get the medical bag!" There's a moment of quiet before a voice responds, "Boss! Are you hurt?" followed by the sound of shuffling and things falling over... expensive things. Ratchet flinches at the sound of his future wallet shrinking and sighs.

"No, I'm fine, it's just Vyke got his ass beat by Rusty's gang again! Just get the medical supplies!"

As Ratchet and I wait by the entrance near the reception desk—if you can call a piece of sheet metal on top of four tires a desk, seriously, you'd think he'd at least...

Smack! "Ow! What the hell? I haven't even done anything yet!"

"So? I can feel you judging my shop, and if you do it again, I'm gonna smack the green right out of your eyes, so shut it," he says, raising his hand to emphasize his point. I grumble and comply. How the hell can he know when I'm judging the shop when I'm not even talking? If he put this much effort into his craft, he'd have escaped the Ninth Ring years ago!

Finally, Arny shows up with the medical bag. "I got it, boss, it's right here." He looks over at me and says, "Whoa, you weren't kidding. He looks like crap! How are you even alive right now?" His tone shouldn't be confused with concern but teasing, as he's seen Vyke get far worse treatment.

"Go sit down while I get this ready, and once I'm done patching you up, me and you are gonna have a talk," Ratchet says, his voice serious. Looks like this was the final straw for him.

I make my way over to the employee restroom and sit on one of the chairs, finally resting after a long, hard day of getting the crap beaten out of me. I smile at the memory and take something out of my pants pocket, hidden inside the lining. It's a knife—sharp, clean, and clearly high-quality. In fact, I don't think I've ever seen anything like this before. "To think this was just lying in the garbage dump. Could this be from the upper levels?" I say as I look at the flat of the blade, seeing my reflection: battered black eyes, bloodied lips, crooked nose—all perfectly reflected in the yellow metal of the blade.

I hide it once again inside my hidden pants pocket and wait for Ratchet to yell at me.

=========

"I can't keep you here any longer, Vyke. I'm sorry, but I just don't have any more to spare. I've got my hands full with Arny and Barny, and I can barely afford to feed all three of you," Ratchet says as he applies some kind of cream to a clean cloth before gently pressing it against my black eye. It stings, but his words sting much more. I stay quiet, not saying a word—I know he's right. I've been mooching off him for years now and have nothing to show for it.

Ratchet took me in when I was orphaned, fed me, clothed me, and kept me out of trouble whenever he could, which is more than most people would do for anyone down here in the slums. And now, he's finally throwing me out—rightfully so.

He keeps applying some kind of ointment to my bloodied lips, and finally, he takes a pair of pliers out of the medical bag. Using one hand to hold me still, he corrects my crooked nose. The pain is sharp, but it feels distant, dulled by everything else I'm feeling.

"There, finally done!" he says. "Now, back to what I was saying. Since I can't take care of you anymore, you're going to have to start taking care of yourself. You're old enough to work now, which is why I used some connections to get you a job near the edge of town. You'll start in a week. You'll get your own salary, your own place, and you'll finally be far away from causing trouble for yourself."

I look at Ratchet with wide eyes. "Wait... you found me a job? Why would you..."

He just gives me a stern look and says, "Kid, don't make me regret this. I had to call in a lot of favors to get you this job, so don't screw it up. Do you understand?" He stares me straight in the eyes.

"I... yes, I understand. Thank you, sir."

He smiles, and for a moment, there's a heavy silence between us. Then there's a knock at the door—it's Barny.

"Hey Vyke, boss, dinner's ready." Barny, quieter and less annoying than his brother Arny, is usually the one in charge of cooking. Mostly because Ratchets too lazy, and Arny's cooking almost killed a man once.

Ratchet stands up, putting a hand on my shoulder. "Come on, this will be your celebratory meal for finally getting out of our hair," he says with a smirk.

"Don't worry, I'll make sure to visit often. It'll be like I never left," I tease, trying to provoke him. He just shakes his head before taking off as fast as he can toward the kitchen.

"Hey, no fair! I'm injured!" I shout, chasing after him, but he's already halfway there. I can barely keep up as he races toward the kitchen, no doubt trying to get to the rustberry jam sandwiches before I do.

The thought of him scarfing them down only pushes me harder to catch up.