The slums reeked like a corpse left to rot under a piss-soaked sky. It was a stench that clung—sweat, filth, and damp earth, thick enough to choke on. I dragged Elias through the alleys, his bony wrist slipping in my grip. He was seven, a scrawny shadow of a kid, and his feet stumbled through the muck like he'd already been half-dead.
Beyond the crumbling walls, the city glittered—golden lights, laughter spilling out like they mock us even now. There, though, it'd been a beast bleeding out, and hunger was the rat that gnawed at its guts. My guts, too.
I kept my head low, eyes darting over the filth-strewn streets. Scavengers hunched like vultures, clawing through trash—broken bottles, gnawed bones, rags too torn to keep the cold off. Hollow-eyed men slumped against shacks, staring through me like I'd already been a ghost.
The wind howled through the crooked roofs, a jagged wail that stole the last scraps of warmth from my bones. It'd always been cold there, and not just the air. It was in the way people looked at you—if they bothered looking at all. Mercy's a fairy tale in the slums. The strong take what they want. The weak? We're just dust under their boots.
"We need food," I muttered, more to the dark than to Elias. My voice was rough, scraped raw from days of nothing but grit and promises I can't keep.
He didn't answer—he knows better. I was ten, three years older, but those years stretched like a noose around my neck. I'd learned kindness was a luxury we couldn't afford, a weakness that'd get you gutted. Elias hasn't figured that out yet. Maybe he never will.
"I'm not that hungry," he whispered, voice so thin it could snap. Bullshit. His ribs jutted out like a cage under his tattered shirt, his cheeks hollowed out, pale as death. His lips were cracked, bleeding at the edges, and his breath came in shallow, wheezing gasps.
I clenched my jaw, swallowing the rage that bubbled up. Starvation's got a sound—a dry rasp that haunts his sleep, a slow bleed of life I can't stop. I'd heard it every night, echoing in the dark, telling me he wouldn't make it through winter if I didn't find something. Anything.
We passed a gang of older boys huddled around a barrel fire, the flames spitting embers into the night. Their eyes glinted, sharp and cruel, the kind of look I'd learned to avoid. I tightened my grip on Elias, pulling him closer, my head ducked low. Don't look. Don't stop.
But one of them clocked me—a scarred bastard, maybe fifteen, his face a mess of jagged lines and bad decisions. His lips curled into a grin that was all teeth and malice.
"Hey, runt!" he barked, voice cutting through the wind. "What you got?"
I kept moving, heart slamming against my ribs. Engaging was a death wish—I'd seen what happened when you talked back. The pouch at my belt was empty, a useless scrap of leather, but they won't care.
They'll take it, smash my face in, maybe worse, just because they can. Elias stumbled behind me, his breath hitching, and I yanked him harder. Keep going. Survive.
"I said—" He lunged, a blur of dirty fists and stinking breath. I shoved Elias aside, mud splashing under his fall, and the kid's swing grazed my shoulder. Pain flared, but I stayed up—hunger had slowed me, dulled the edges, but I was still quick.
Quick enough to duck his next punch, a wild haymaker that whistled past my ear. The third one landed, though—a solid crack to my ribs that sent me sprawling into the muck. Laughter erupted, harsh and guttural, like crows picking at carrion.
I gritted my teeth, mud cold against my palms as I pushed up. No crying. No begging. Tears are blood in the water here, and I've got none to spare. My side throbbed, a dull fire spreading, but I forced myself to stand, fists clenched, ready to fight for the nothing I've got left.
The scarred kid loomed over me, his shadow stretching long and twisted in the firelight. His breath reeked—rot and cheap liquor, the kind that burns your throat and leaves you mean.
"What's this?" he sneers, kicking at my pouch with a muddy boot. "Hiding something, rat?"
I didn't answer. Words are weapons here, and silence is the only shield I've got. He didn't like that. His hand shot out, grabbing my collar, yanking me close enough to smell the sour sweat on him. "What's in the bag?" he hisses, low and dangerous, spit flecking my face.
"Nothing," I say, keeping my voice flat, steady, even as fear claws up my spine. "It's empty."
His eyes narrow, glinting with disbelief. Trust's a myth here—nobody's got it, nobody gives it. He grunted, ripping the pouch from my belt with a sharp tug. The leather tore open, revealing nothing but air and a few specks of dirt.
His face twisted—rage, red and ugly, flaring up like the fire behind him. "Waste of my fucking time," he spat, tossing the pouch into the mud. His shove came hard, fast, and I crashed into Elias, knocking us both down.
My brother let out a small, broken cry as we hit the ground, the cold muck seeping through our clothes, chilling us to the bone.
Their laughter rang out, a jagged tolling bell echoing through the alley. My nails dug into my palms, drawing blood, and I wanted to scream—wanted to lunge, claw, tear into them until they're the ones bleeding.
But I couldn't. Not there. Not then. I've got to be smarter than that. I've got to keep us alive.
"Come on," I muttered, hauling Elias up. His face was streaked with tears, mud smearing the tracks, but he doesn't make a sound. He's learned—crying just paints a target on your back. We stumbled away, my ribs aching with every step, the slums sprawling around us like a festering wound.
Shacks leaned into each other, patched with splintered wood and rusted metal, ready to collapse under their own weight. The air had been thick with decay—rotting scraps, unwashed bodies, the sour tang of despair that never washed out.
Somewhere in the distance, a baby's wail cut through, sharp and desperate. Nobody answered. Nobody ever did.
I kept my eyes on the ground, scanning for anything we could use—a scrap of cloth, a shard of tin, a half-eaten crust of bread. But the slums were a graveyard of hope. Scavengers had stripped it bare, leaving nothing but dregs for rats like us.
My stomach twisted, a hollow ache that'd been my shadow for days. Elias shuffled beside me, his breath a faint wheeze, and I could feel him fading—slipping through my fingers like smoke.
"Rowan," he whispers, voice trembling, barely there. "I'm cold."
I didn't answer. What the hell am I supposed to say? The cold's a leech here, sucking the life out of you until there's nothing left to take. I gripped his hand tighter, pulling him against me, his bony frame pressing into my side.
We'd find shelter. We had to. But the slums don't give a damn about "had to." The abandoned warehouses, the crumbling church—they'd been claimed by gangs or worse.
I'd learned that lesson the hard way, got a scar on my arm to prove it. Numbers didn't mean safety there—not when every hand was a fist waiting to strike.
We passed a knot of men guarding a pitiful fire, their eyes dark and calculating, tracking us like wolves sizing up prey. I quickened my pace, dragging Elias along, my pulse thudding in my ears. Don't look back. Don't give them a reason.
The sun had sunk then, a weak smear of light bleeding out behind the jagged skyline. Shadows stretched long and hungry, swallowing the alleys whole.
My stomach growled, louder, a beast clawing at my insides. I glanced at Elias—his sunken cheeks, his dull eyes—and my chest tightened like someone squeezed it in a vice. We needed food. Soon. But the slums don't care about need.
"We'll find something," I say, voice low, rough with the weight of it. "I promise."
He nods, but his eyes are empty, lifeless. That promise is a ghost we both know—a hollow echo we've heard too many times. It's not hope; it's just noise to fill the silence.
The wind picked up, sharper then, carrying the faint sound of laughter from the city beyond the walls. It was a gut punch, a cruel jab from a world that doesn't give a shit about us—a world of warm beds, full bellies, and locked doors we'll never pry open.
I clenched my fists, jaw so tight it aches. I hate that sound. I hate the city. I hate this stinking pit we're trapped in. Most of all, I hate the helplessness that sank its claws into me, dragging me down like a chain I can't break.
I'd survive. I had to. For Elias. For me. For the day I could burn this whole damn place to the ground and walk away laughing.
But as the darkness closed in, thick and suffocating, even that felt like a lie—a flicker of fire snuffed out by the wind. Still, I kept moving, one step, then another, because stopping means dying. And I'm not ready to be another body in the mud. Not yet.