Day 60 – Hour 009–010: The First Glimpse

Day 60 – Hour 009–010: The First Glimpse

Changing his mind, the weight of the rulebook pressed lightly against Nemi's chest from inside his coat as he stepped out into the chilled morning air. He hadn't fully slept—more like drifted in and out of shallow awareness after reading the fine print. The early light of the slums always had a dirty hue to it, like the sun couldn't push past the grime in the air. But today felt different. The corners of his awareness twitched with expectation.

This was a hunt. The first of its kind.

He didn't feel excitement. It was something more visceral—like his instincts had pushed to the front of the line and everything else was lagging behind, trying to catch up. Nemi moved silently through the sloped paths and stacked alleys, eyes low, steps careful, head hooded.

He headed first toward the only place that made sense: the old transit hub near East Sector's burn pit. Not because he knew something others didn't—but because the area was both open and chaotic, a place where someone paranoid could try to see everything, and where others might not notice a man being watched. It was the sort of place that attracted uncertainty.

As he approached, the soft hum of morning life began to rise. Shopkeepers moving metal shutters, plastic chairs being unstacked, and the sound of someone coughing too hard to be healthy. Nemi positioned himself near the edge of the square, between a broken vending terminal and a collapsed shade tent. He didn't even have to wait long.

At Hour 010 exactly, his eyes landed on someone that made his gut go cold.

The man was tall, with a hunched gait that didn't match his build. He was dressed like he wanted to disappear—gray hoodie pulled tight, black scarf wrapped high on his neck, eyes darting like every face might be the last one he saw. He didn't look like a local. He didn't look like he belonged anywhere.

Nemi knew the signs. This wasn't someone visiting. This was someone trying to survive—on edge, exposed, and desperate not to be seen. Nemi tensed without realizing. He watched for three full minutes without blinking.

Could this be the subject?

There was no way to know for sure. No ID. No photos. No hints except the rules he had memorized during the walk. The subject would be male. Over fifteen. Not allowed to eat. Not allowed to stay indoors for longer than two hours a day. Beyond that, Nemi had no method of verification without revealing himself—no code words, no signals. Just suspicion and the way the subject moved like a shadow refusing to dissolve.

Then it happened. Too fast to intervene. Too messy to ignore.

Three young men—street-thin, with jagged scars and twitchy fingers—stepped out from behind one of the charred vendor stalls. Nemi recognized the type immediately. Opportunists. Local predators sniffing out weakness. They weren't connected to the Club. They didn't know who they were dealing with. They just saw a man acting strange and figured he might have something worth taking.

"Hey!" one of them called out. "You lookin' for someone or just trying not to be found?"

The man didn't answer. Just turned on his heel, slow, careful, and already measuring the distance between him and the exit routes.

"Why the rush?" another one smirked, stepping closer. "You carryin'? You lost?"

They were blocking him in without making it obvious. Nemi stayed still. Eyes narrowed. He needed to see how the subject would handle this.

The man took a half-step back. Just enough to shift his weight. His hands were empty. He didn't reach for anything. Didn't square up either.

"I don't have time for this," the man muttered. His voice was hoarse, like he hadn't had water in a while. "I can't be seen!"

That was it.

The words hit like a gunshot in Nemi's ears. They weren't a plea or an excuse. They were desperation. Panic. And they were meant for no one. They weren't trying to convince the attackers—they were the kind of thing someone says when they forget the world is listening.

Nemi's body tensed with a shiver of confirmation. That phrase wasn't a coincidence. The subject was real. This was him.

The scuffle broke out a second later. One of the men lunged for the subject's jacket, but the target ducked and bolted. He moved fast, too fast for someone half-starved and on edge. He cut between two vendors, knocked over a table of cheap sunglasses, and vanished through the back alley before anyone could yell.

The three attackers were left stumbling, one of them slipping on a bag of expired bread. One spat in the dirt.

"Psycho," he hissed. "Probably a runner."

They scattered before anyone could ask questions.

Nemi didn't move. Not yet.

His mind was already building the next steps. Now he knew what the target looked like. He had a behavioral profile, a sense of pace, a probable route, and, most importantly—confirmation. The target couldn't be seen. And he had been.

The hunt was on.

Nemi turned from his position, melted back into the crowd, and slipped down a separate street. He wouldn't follow immediately. That wasn't how you shadow someone. You let them think they got away. You give them time to get careless.

He walked slowly, hands deep in his pockets, body vibrating from the adrenaline that hadn't had time to surface until now. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Three days.

Two socks.

No rules except the ones he chooses to break.

And somewhere in this crumbling city, a man running out of time.