I kept my head down as I navigated the maze of metal and stone, the iron spires of House Ferros casting long shadows across my path. My stomach growled - three days without food had taken its toll. The sweet scent of fresh bread wafted from a nearby bakery, making my mouth water.

"Get lost, street rat." A merchant shoved me aside as I lingered too close to his fruit stand. The impact sent me sprawling into a puddle, the dirty water soaking through my threadbare clothes.

The cold seeped into my bones. I pulled myself up, ignoring the snickers from better-dressed passersby. Their fine clothes and well-fed faces marked them as citizens who'd never known real hunger.

A group of city guards marched past, their iron-plated boots clicking against the cobblestones. I pressed myself against the nearest wall, trying to become invisible. The last time they'd caught me, I'd spent a week in the cells.

"Look at that one." Two women in silk dresses whispered as they passed. "Someone should clean these streets of such filth."

My fingers curled into fists. The rage built inside me, familiar and hot. I'd seen their type before - living in their metal towers, preaching about order while children starved in the gutters below.

The setting sun painted the iron buildings in shades of blood and rust. As darkness crept in, the streets began to empty. The respectable folk hurried home, leaving the night to predators and prey.

I ducked into an alley, seeking shelter beneath a rusted overhang. The metal walls around me seemed to pulse with malevolent energy as if the very city itself conspired to crush those at the bottom.

My stomach cramped again. Tomorrow I'd have to try the marketplace again, maybe find something to steal. The thought brought no shame anymore - survival had burned away such luxuries as pride or morality.

I pulled my knees to my chest, the memories flooding back as I huddled in that dark alley. The orphanage had been my first lesson in cruelty - cold gruel, colder beds, and the constant reminder that no one wanted me. The matron's face twisted into a sneer each time she passed.

"Your parents left you here to rot." Her words cut deeper than the switch she wielded.

I ran away at six after she sold my shoes for drink money. The streets taught me faster than any school could. Each town blurred into the next - Ironhaven, Rustgate, Steelspire. The names changed but the contempt in people's eyes remained the same.

A merchant caught me stealing bread once. "No one helps thieves," he spat, breaking my fingers one by one. I learned to be quicker, quieter, and invisible.

Some nights, I dreamed of warm arms and gentle voices, but those fantasies dissolved with the morning dew. The reality was the hard ground beneath me, the constant gnaw of hunger, and the bruises from those who saw street children as less than human.

"Poor thing," a woman once cooed, offering me a copper coin. Her kindness lasted until I reached for it - then came the guards, the accusations of attempted theft, and the beating that left me limping for weeks.

My tenth winter nearly killed me. I found shelter in a barn, only to have the farmer set his dogs on me. The scars on my leg still ached when it rained. That night, as I lay shivering in a ditch, I realized no one would ever save me. The world had no place for unwanted children.

The years hardened me like steel in a forge. Each betrayal, each false promise of help, each night spent hungry - they shaped me into something sharp and unyielding. Survival meant trusting no one, expecting nothing, and taking what I needed without remorse.

A beggar stretched his withered hand toward me. "Please, just a crust of bread." His eyes held the same desperate hunger I saw in my own reflection. I turned away - I had nothing to give, and false hope was crueler than indifference.

A child's wail pierced the evening air. Through a grimy window, I glimpsed a mother trying to quiet her baby, her own face gaunt with starvation. The scene twisted something inside me. How many times had my own mother - real or imagined - done the same?

"Move along," a guard barked at an elderly man who'd stopped to catch his breath against a wall. The old traveler's pack weighed heavy on his bent shoulders, his breathing labored in the thick city air. He shuffled forward, head bowed, another soul ground down by the city's relentless machinery.

I'd watched this dance a thousand times. The wealthy merchants who tossed coins to beggars when others were watching, then hired thugs to clear the streets before important customers arrived. The temple priests who preached charity while feasting behind closed doors. The guards who accepted bribes to look the other way when the rich committed crimes, but beat street children for stealing apples.

A woman in fine clothes stepped over a sleeping beggar, her nose wrinkled in disgust. Minutes later, I saw her press a coin into a temple collection box, smiling at the approving nods from other worshippers. The same coin could have fed the man she'd stepped over.

"You there!" A merchant's voice rang out. "Watch this one - caught him trying to steal yesterday." The lie spread quickly through the market. I hadn't been near his stall in days, but truth meant nothing to those who already saw us as thieves and vermin.

The city's masks changed with the hours. Morning brought false piety, afternoon held cold commerce, and night revealed the true faces of those who claimed to be righteous. I'd learned to read them all, to see through the pretense of civilization to the rot beneath.

With each step, his heart grew heavier. The world had hardened him, shaping him into a survivor. But beneath the tough exterior, a fragile boy yearned for warmth, for love, for a place to belong.

I dragged my feet through the winding streets, each step echoing against the cold stone. The weight in my chest grew heavier, like I'd swallowed one of the iron ingots the merchants traded.

A family passed by - father, mother, two children with rosy cheeks and clean clothes. The smallest girl clutched a rag doll to her chest, skipping alongside her brother. Their laughter cut through me sharper than any knife.

"Papa, can we get sweet rolls?" The boy tugged at his father's sleeve.

"Of course, my little warrior." The man ruffled his son's hair.

I turned away, my throat tight. The memory of touch - real, gentle touch - had faded years ago. My hands remembered violence: the sting of a switch, the crack of knuckles against jaw, the rough grip of guards dragging me to cells.

A loose cobblestone caught my toe. I stumbled, catching myself against a wall. The stone felt warm from the day's sun, and for a moment, I pressed my cheek against it, pretending it was something else. Someone else.

"Are you alright?" An old woman's voice startled me.

I jerked back, walls slamming up. "Fine." The word came out harsh, defensive.

Her eyes softened with pity. I hated that look. Pity never filled empty bellies or offered real shelter. It was cheaper than bread and just as filling as air.

But something in me cracked. A treacherous part that still believed in kindness, in possibility. The part I thought I'd killed years ago.

"Would you like-" she began.

"No." I pushed past her, running now. My feet carried me through familiar alleys, past the spots where I sometimes slept, past the bakery where the owner sometimes left stale bread by the back door.

I ran until my lungs burned and my legs shook. In a narrow space between two buildings, I slid down the wall. My hands trembled as I pressed them against my eyes.

The tough shell I'd built crumbled. Beneath it, I was still that six-year-old boy, watching the orphanage door close. Still that child huddled in hay, listening to dogs bark. Still someone's son, even if they hadn't wanted me.

A sob caught in my throat. I swallowed it back, but others followed. Years of unshed tears threatened to drown me. I bit my knuckles until I tasted blood, fighting to keep quiet. Crying was dangerous. Crying was weak. Crying meant you still cared enough to hurt.

But I did hurt. Under the layers of survival and street-learned cruelty, under the mask of indifference, I ached for something I couldn't name. For warm arms and gentle voices. For a place where I didn't have to watch every shadow. For someone to look at me and see more than a street rat or a thief.

The sky darkened above the narrow strip visible between buildings. I pressed my forehead to my knees, making myself small, trying to hold together the pieces that wanted to shatter.