Day 61 – Hour 010 “Loose Threads, Quiet Breakfasts”

Day 61 – Hour 010"Loose Threads, Quiet Breakfasts"

I wasn't more than three turns away from the main road when I heard her voice—gentle, unmistakable.

"Nemi, dear. You're walking too fast. Come sit with an old woman before she forgets what your face looks like."

I slowed down, glanced over my shoulder, and there she was—Auntie. Sitting on her usual wooden stool that had gone soft at the corners. The one patched up more times than my shoes. She had a smile too calm for the noise of the street, and a plate in her hand too full for a single person.

"I was just passing by," I muttered, but my steps betrayed me. I turned, walked over, and took a seat beside her without protest.

"Everyone's always passing by these days," she said, placing the plate between us. "But not you. You've always got time for your Auntie."

I gave a small grin, took one of the flatbreads, and folded it neatly on the edge of the plate. It smelled good, but I wasn't hungry. Not now. Not when I knew there'd be lunch waiting at Facility 8—food I wouldn't have to pay for, food I didn't have to ration.

Still, I took a few small bites. Auntie watched me eat with those gentle eyes, eyes that had probably seen far more of the world than anyone let her admit.

"You've been quiet lately," she said. "Even quieter than usual. That means you're thinking too much."

"Maybe," I said. "But thinking's free."

"True." She smiled and patted my shoulder. "But some thoughts cost more than you know. Don't let them grow interest."

We sat in silence for a few more moments. I ate maybe half the flatbread before placing the rest back on the plate.

"Good food," I said.

"Liar," she chuckled, shaking her head. "You barely touched it."

"I'm saving room," I admitted. "Lunch plans."

She raised an eyebrow but didn't ask. She never asked when she didn't have to. That's what made her dangerous in the best way.

"You be careful," she said, leaning forward slightly. "There's something strange in the air lately. Too many secrets moving around with feet too light to hear."

I didn't answer. Just nodded.

With that, I rose, gave her a small wave, and started off again. The road to Nolve's wasn't long. The shops were just opening, and the air had that post-rain smell even though it hadn't rained. Dust mixed with last night's smoke, and it settled over the slums like a second skin.

Nolve's shop was already open by the time I arrived. The old man was behind the counter, just where he always was—arms crossed loosely, reading the same faded newspaper like he wasn't bored out of his mind.

He glanced up as I entered, and I didn't give him time to breathe before I spoke.

"Are you a member of Facility 8 Gym?"

His brow lifted—just barely—but it was enough. I saw the flicker. Surprise, maybe. Or maybe just the twitch of someone who didn't expect the game to begin that early.

"Why," he replied slowly, folding his paper, "is this some kind of sign-up drive?"

I kept my expression flat. I wasn't here to play polite.

"Just asking."

Nolve gave a half-laugh, the kind that said nothing while saying everything. He leaned forward, elbows on the glass case that separated us.

"Are you a member?" he asked. "Seems like the sort of place for young men with ambition and nowhere better to go."

"Maybe," I replied. "I've heard they give out free meals."

"Well," Nolve said, shrugging like the question bored him, "then maybe I'm a member too. Maybe we all are."

There it was. The switch. He'd taken the reins back.

But I wasn't trying to win. I was just probing.

"Strange place to offer that kind of luxury," I said.

"Stranger people need it," he countered. "And some of us know when to take what's offered."

His gaze lingered, firm but not aggressive. The kind of look that weighed you without ever writing down the number. I gave nothing back. We both had our parts to play.

"You didn't come here to talk gyms," he finally said, straightening up.

"No," I admitted. "But it's a good way to start."

"Then let's start properly," he said, and turned toward the back room.

Whatever I had planned for this visit, it was time to see just how deep Nolve's roots ran—and whether his web of information could hold a candle to the one I was already tangled in.