The faint stench of mildew and burning refuse clung to the air, mingling with the metallic tang of blood on his hands. The cobblestone streets were uneven, lined with shattered glass and discarded scraps.
Each step felt heavier than the last, his knees threatening to buckle under the combined weight of his grief and his sister's fragile form.
As he walked, faces emerged from windows and alleyways. The slum dwellers—grimy, tired, and weathered by the harshness of their lives—stopped what they were doing.
Their gazes clung to him, a mixture of pity and dread etched into their expressions.
"Poor thing…" someone murmured.
"He's been chosen by the Crucible. His fate is sealed," another whispered, their tone like a funeral dirge.
"No one from the slums survives the Crucible," an older man added, shaking his head.
"Not without training. Not without help."
Their words coiled around Vale's heart like thorned vines. His jaw tightened, his teeth grinding audibly.
His grip on Rue's body grew firmer, as though holding her would shield him from their judgment.
'Fucking idiots!' he thought bitterly.
'What do they know? Crucibles? Monsters? I won't let anything decide my fate. Not this, not them.'
Eventually, Vale reached a secluded park—one of the few remnants of beauty left in the slums.
Overgrown weeds sprouted between the cracks of rusted playground equipment, and the air smelled faintly of earth and decay.
He made his way to a tree, its bark weathered and scarred. At eye level, a message was carved into the trunk: V+R, surrounded by a lopsided heart.
His fingers traced the faded etching, memories flooding his mind—a time when he and Rue had played here, laughing as though the world beyond the park didn't exist.
A single tear slipped down his cheek, hot and unwelcome. He brushed it away with the back of his hand, scowling at his own weakness.
With trembling hands, he knelt beside the tree and began digging.
The soil was stubborn, compacted by years of neglect. His fingernails cracked and bled as he clawed at the earth, but he didn't stop.
This was nothing—nothing compared to what he had already endured. Nothing compared to what he would face.
The hours dragged on. The sun arched high in the sky before beginning its descent, casting long, golden shadows across the park.
Vale's hands were unrecognizable now—raw, bloodied, and coated in dirt that clung to the wounds. But he barely noticed. His focus was singular.
When the hole was finally deep enough, he lowered Rue into it with the tenderness of someone handling glass. For a moment, he simply stared at her, his vision blurring as if the world itself was dissolving around him.
Then, with a stick, he carved a new message into the tree
"Here lies Rue. A dear sister. The greatest company a brother could ask for. R.I.P."
He sat beside the grave for a long time, his head bowed, his thoughts a storm. Could someone like him—broken, angry, and lost—truly survive the nightmare? His doubts gnawed at him, each one like a whisper in the dark.
But then he looked at the carving on the tree, and a spark of determination flared within him.
"For Rue," he whispered. The words steadied him, like an anchor in the chaos. "I'll survive. For Rue."
With exhaustion weighing heavy on him, Vale stumbled through the slums until he reached the nearest police station.
The neon sign flickered weakly, casting intermittent light on the cracked pavement. He knocked three times, each one weaker than the last.
The door creaked open, revealing a middle-aged cop with a receding hairline and a shirt stained with coffee. He squinted at Vale, his irritation evident.
"For the third time, kid, you can't report someone for—" The cop stopped mid-sentence as his eyes landed on Vale, taking in his pitch-black skin and hollow gaze.
His expression shifted from annoyance to alarm.
Before Vale could speak, his knees gave out, and he collapsed on the doorstep.
Vale woke to a sterile white light glaring down at him. The scent of antiseptic filled his nostrils, and he realized he was in a hospital bed.
Two cops stood at the foot of the bed, speaking in hushed tones.
"Reckon he's gonna make it?" one asked, scratching his neck.
"Hell no. Slums kids never survive the Crucible. They always end up—"
A sharp cough interrupted them.
They turned to see a tall woman standing in the doorway, her presence commanding.
Her uniform bore the insignia of an Ascended—someone who had completed the nightmare and lived to tell the tale.
"Sorry, Ascended Sylvia," the second cop stammered, stepping back. "We didn't see you there."
"Leave," she said curtly. "I'll handle this."
The cops shuffled out, one muttering under his breath, "At least she's here to finish the job if he fails."
As the door clicked shut, Sylvia approached the bed, her gaze piercing. Vale stirred, his eyes fluttering open.
"Welcome to the nightmare," she said, her voice calm but firm. "You'd better be ready."
Before he could respond, everything went dark, and Vale found himself suspended in a void. A voice echoed all around him.
["Whisperer, welcome to your Crucible. Prepare yourself. You will need it."]