The air smelled of rust and oil. Metal scraps lay scattered across the barren scrapyard, towering heaps of twisted steel and forgotten machinery forming an endless maze. The ground was uneven, a mixture of broken glass, mud, and the occasional sharp edge waiting to cut through careless flesh.
Under the dim morning light, a young boy worked tirelessly, his small hands pulling apart rusted wires from a broken console. His fingers were caked in grime, his tattered clothes hanging loosely over his lean frame. His ribs were faintly visible beneath the thin fabric, his skin pale, his blue veins more pronounced in the cold.
He didn't speak. He never did.
The voices of men echoed from the other side of the scrapyard, their conversation sharp, casual, and laced with something rotten.
"You saw that girl yesterday? The one from the merchant district?"
A gruff laugh. "The one with the red dress? Yeah… bet she'd go for the right price."
"Tch. That's what you think. Nobles like that don't mix with people like us. But if she were here?"
A heavy pause. Then a low chuckle. "Wouldn't be a noble anymore."
Cain didn't react. Their words slid past him like wind through broken metal. He had learned long ago—listening was pointless, reacting was even worse.
He adjusted the grey bag slung over his shoulder, securing it carefully. It wasn't much, just a collection of broken parts he had scavenged, things others ignored. It was trash, but trash could be sold.
Then, the men noticed him.
"Oi."
Cain didn't stop walking.
"Oi, kid. What's in the bag?"
Still, he moved forward, ignoring them. He had no reason to answer. No reason to waste energy.
A heavy hand landed on his shoulder, yanking him back. The boy stopped.
"I asked you a question." The man sneered. "Let's see what you got."
His grip tightened, his fingers rough and calloused from years of work—or crime. The other men watched, smirking, their expressions filled with something almost playful.
Cain's blue veins stood out beneath his skin, his grip on the bag loosening slightly. Then, without a word, he let go, allowing it to drop onto the dirt with a soft thud.
He turned slowly, looking up at them with empty eyes. No fear. No defiance. Just… nothing.
The men exchanged glances, a flicker of amusement passing between them. "Tch. Not even gonna fight back?" One of them bent down, untying the bag and rummaging through it. "What do we got here… just the usual junk—"
Then he froze.
A small, dull coin sat among the scraps. At first glance, it was nothing special. Just a circular piece of metal, faded and worn. But there was something… off about it.
The man's fingers hovered over it for a moment before snatching it up. His eyes narrowed. "What's this?"
Cain tilted his head slightly, his voice raspy from disuse. "Trash."
The man's grin widened. "Is that so?"
The others gathered closer, peering at the coin. Their smirks darkened, their amusement twisting into something else entirely. One of them exhaled through his nose, shaking his head.
"No. This ain't trash."
They exchanged glances again. Then, in an instant—
The first fist struck his stomach.
Cain doubled over, air leaving his lungs in a silent gasp. He didn't fight back. There was no point.
The second punch landed on his ribs, then another. Boots slammed against his body, dirt mixing with the blood trailing from his lip. His shirt tore as he was dragged across the ground, revealing scars—old, healed, and layered.
He'd been through this before.
His mind was quiet as his body was battered. He counted the hits, analyzing the pain, gauging how much longer it would last.
It wasn't the worst beating he'd taken. It wouldn't be the last.
They enjoy this. That was the reality of it. Beating someone weaker gave them something—power, control, entertainment.
Eventually, the kicks stopped. Like always, they got bored.
But today… something was different.
One of the men crouched down, flipping the coin between his fingers. "Too risky to sell. If people find out we got this…"
Another sighed. "Yeah. Loose ends, you know?"
Cain's breathing was shallow, but his mind was steady. They were going to kill him. There was no use pleading. No one would help. No one ever did.
The crouching man nodded. Then, without hesitation, he grabbed a nearby rusted metal rod and lifted it over the boy's head.
For the first time, Cain's fingers twitched.
The rod came down.
Then—
Everything stopped.
The rain hung motionless in the air. The rod, frozen mid-swing, trembled as if it could feel something vast staring down upon the scene. The air thickened, the sky above twisting, shifting—
A massive gear turned where the heavens should have been.
Metal screamed as unseen hands twisted the very fabric of existence. The universe itself groaned under the weight of something colossal.
Cain's mind felt stretched thin, as if something had reached inside his skull and pulled at the edges of his consciousness. He wasn't afraid. He wasn't anything. He simply… existed.
There was no warmth. No comfort. Only a vast, endless presence that neither belonged to a man nor a woman, nor any known being.
His heartbeat slowed. His body was breaking down, inching toward an end that had long been waiting for him.
Then—
The void spoke.
It did not whisper. It did not boom. It simply was.
"Work for me."
A pause. A suffocating silence.
Then a second phrase, layered with something unknowable. Something final.
"Or be discarded."
Cain had no voice to answer, no strength to move. But the moment the thought formed—
The world collapsed inward.