The streets never slept.
Nova had learned that long ago.
The world he lived in was a maze of cracked cobblestones, twisting alleys, and shadows that stretched long under the dim lantern glow. The air smelled of too many things—roasted meat from the market, the stink of waste in the gutters, and the unmistakable musk of unwashed bodies pressed too close together. It was a city that swallowed the weak and only spit them back out as corpses.
And Nova was determined not to be one of them.
His fingers curled tightly around the stale loaf of bread he had just stolen. It wasn't much—hard as a rock, probably days old—but to Nova, it was survival. His stomach clenched in pain, hunger gnawing at his insides like a wild animal. He hadn't eaten since yesterday. Maybe the day before. Time blurred when you were starving.
Then— a shout.
"Thief! Stop that boy!"
Nova's heartbeat slammed against his ribs.
His body reacted before his mind did—run.
He bolted down the alley, his small, dirty feet pounding against the stones. Behind him, the shopkeeper gave chase, his heavy boots echoing through the streets. Nova didn't dare look back. He didn't have to. He knew the sound of rage, of someone desperate to make an example out of a street rat.
"Get back here, you little bastard!" the man roared.
Nova dodged a stumbling drunk, slipped past a woman carrying a basket of fruit. Keep moving. Don't slow down.
His pulse pounded in his ears, his breath ragged as he weaved through the crowded marketplace. The stalls were bursting with things he could never afford—golden apples, roasted nuts, sizzling meat skewers dripping with fat. The scent of food taunted him.
For a split second, he saw a chance—an open gap between two market stalls, just big enough for his small body to squeeze through.
Perfect.
He lunged for it—
CRASH!
A burly man stepped in his path at the last second. Nova slammed into him and bounced back, the air knocking from his lungs. The man barely stumbled, turning with an annoyed grunt.
"Watch where you're—"
But Nova was already scrambling up, ignoring the dull pain in his ribs.
Behind him, the shopkeeper was still coming.
Nova zigzagged through the marketplace, snatching an apple from a cart as he passed. He took a quick bite, barely chewing, just swallowing enough to quiet the stabbing pain in his belly.
He had almost made it—almost lost the man—when his luck ran out.
A rough hand clamped onto the back of his shirt.
Shit.
He thrashed, twisting his body, kicking wildly. "Let me go!"
The grip didn't loosen.
Nova's breath hitched as he looked up, meeting cold, calculating eyes.
Not the shopkeeper. Worse.
A tall, broad-shouldered man in a dark coat. Scars traced down one side of his face, his expression unreadable.
Nova's stomach turned to ice.
"Stealing on my streets, huh?" The man's voice was calm. Too calm. That was bad.
Nova swallowed hard. He had heard of this man. Everyone had.
The gang lord of the slums. The man who ran these streets like his own personal empire. The one you didn't steal from unless you wanted to disappear.
Nova forced himself to smirk, though his heart was racing. "Didn't know these streets belonged to you."
The man chuckled, but there was no warmth in it. "They do. And that means you owe me now, kid."
Nova had survived a lot. Hunger, sickness, freezing nights with no shelter.
But looking into this man's eyes, he had the sinking feeling that he might not survive this.