Chapter 3

Davo sat cross-legged on the cracked concrete floor, his gaze locked on Emma as she slept soundly for the first time in days. Her breath came slow and steady, her thin chest rising and falling in a gentle rhythm untarnished by the coughing that had haunted her. The faint glow from the distant city lights slipped through the grime-spattered window, bathing her face in a pale halo. For once, her features looked peaceful—almost like the child she had never truly been allowed to be.

He watched her, a flutter of excitement quivering in his chest. What did this change mean for them? Were they alone in it? Outside, the slums rustled with uneasy energy—scavengers muttering and the occasional snarl of feral dogs echoing down cramped alleyways. Even the night wind carried an edge, as though the city sensed something stirring in the shadows. Davo felt its pulse, a faint tremor that whispered across his skin like a silent alarm.

He leaned his head back against the peeling wall and let out a soft exhale. His limbs, once weighed down by fatigue and hunger, felt feather-light. A small, rueful smile tugged at his mouth. Whatever happened next could wait until tomorrow. Tonight, he would give himself over to the rare luxury of restful sleep.

Beyond the battered door, the slums shifted and sighed—the distant clang of metal against metal, voices rising in drunken laughter, the occasional roar of an engine that sputtered before coughing to a stop. It all sounded subtly different, tinged with an undercurrent of anticipation, as if something monstrous prowled at the edges of the labyrinthine streets. In their precarious haven, however, Davo found only silence and the warmth of his own exhausted relief.

--

Davo woke to a blade of golden sunlight cutting through the broken boards at the window. Its warmth roused him instantly, and he realized with a jolt that he felt… revitalized. Gone was the gnawing ache in his gut, the perpetual weariness in his bones. He sat up, testing each limb in disbelief, marveling at the unexpected surge of energy coursing through him.

He rubbed at his gritty eyes, scanning the cramped room. Emma was no longer wrapped in her threadbare blankets. Instead, she stood by the smeared glass, her every movement free of the frail caution that had defined her for so long. A vibrant glow colored her cheeks, her eyes alert and bright, and when she turned to him, a small smile pulled at her lips.

Davo swung his legs off their makeshift bed of salvaged cloth and cardboard, a grin of his own spreading across his face. "How do you feel?" he asked, voice tinged with hope.

Emma stretched her arms overhead, her back arching. "I feel... great," she replied, sounding almost breathless with surprise. "Like I've been eating three square meals a day." She paused, blinking in wonder. "Like I've been... renewed."

He nodded slowly, flexing his own fingers as that same flood of vitality hummed through him. "Yeah," he said softly, "me too."

They stood quietly for a heartbeat, absorbing the near-impossible shift in their bodies. Days of hunger, sickness, and exhaustion had lifted away as though washed clean in the night, leaving them strangely weightless. A sense of possibility expanded between them, chasing the usual tinge of desperation from the stale air.

Davo snapped out of his reverie, turning his attention to the exit. "We should head out," he murmured, the excitement in his voice only slightly tempered by caution. "See what's going on… who knows what else has changed?"

Emma slid on her worn jacket, eyes flicking to the corners of their tiny shelter. The lingering smells of mildew and cold concrete hung in the air, a final reminder of the old life they were leaving behind—at least for now. Davo carefully rearranged the mound of trash and cardboard masking the entrance, making sure the hidden exit looked as uninviting as ever to any curious passerby.

Then, with one last glance at each other, they stepped out into the unknown, ready to face whatever waited beyond their fragile refuge.

Davo and Emma stepped cautiously into the narrow alley, the heavy scent of damp earth and stale trash pressing in on them. Where there was usually a deafening roar of early-morning traffic—rickshaws sputtering, stray dogs barking, vendors hollering—now a hushed calm hung over the slum. Only the distant drip of water from a broken pipe and the muffled shuffle of feet reached their ears, as if the entire neighborhood were suspended in a collective breath.

Davo's gaze swept over the makeshift homes, each haphazardly stacked and patched with corrugated metal and rotting plywood. The tight lanes that normally overflowed with beaten-down motorbikes were eerily clear, save for a few curious stray animals sniffing at overturned bins. He nudged Emma gently, nodding toward the near-silence. "Like one of those big festivals ended, and everyone went home," he murmured, his voice low to match the stillness. "Only thing is—nobody's lying in bed with a hangover."

Emma's eyes darted from face to face. Clusters of people stood rooted in place, hands gingerly exploring their own skin, as though questioning whether they were truly awake. In the dim morning light, Davo spotted an old man crouched over a dented metal bucket filled with murky water. With careful, trembling fingers, the man scrubbed at his forearm. Thin sheets of dull, lifeless skin peeled away, revealing a fresher layer beneath, pink and youthful. Straightening slowly, he stared at his reflection in the bucket, mouth agape, as if he had just witnessed a magic trick.

A few steps away, a woman stretched her thin arms above her head, hesitantly bending each joint as though trying on a new body. The deep furrows across her brow and cheeks seemed to have softened overnight. Catching Davo's stare, she offered a tentative smile, then released a shaky laugh as she flexed her fingers, marveling at the ease of motion.

Further down the alley, Davo noticed a man with a pronounced limp standing stock-still. His pant leg was rolled up to the knee, revealing a limb that seemed to be... growing. Muscles rippled under the skin, knitting themselves where once there had been only gnarled flesh. The man let out a choking sob of disbelief, shifting his weight carefully onto the leg, as if testing its newfound strength.

Emma swallowed hard, her voice trembling when she finally spoke. "Davo... are we really seeing this?"

He gave a small nod, though his pulse pounded in his ears. "Yeah," he managed. "It's happening, all right."

With every step they took through the winding lanes, they encountered more evidence of these impossible changes—backs straightened, eyes grew bright, and limbs that once ached with age or injury moved as though they belonged to a much younger body. An elderly woman Davo knew only as the 'Cane Lady' now walked unaided, her wooden cane forgotten at her side. A knot of children stood before a cracked mirror propped against a leaning wall, giggling as they touched their own cheeks, plumper and rosier than they had been just the day before.

The slum was indeed waking up, but not in the usual sense—people weren't simply rising from fitful sleep. They were awakening to something altogether extraordinary, confronted by renewed bodies and baffling vigor. Shock mingled with awe in every whispered conversation, the tension broken only by occasional gasps or nervous laughter.

Davo caught Emma's eye, the same question echoing between them: What had happened overnight? Neither voiced it aloud, as if speaking the question might shatter the fragile wonder pulsing in the air. They pressed on through the maze of rickety shacks and uneven pathways, careful to keep to the edges and shadows so no one followed them back to their own hideout. Davo's stomach twisted with a mix of curiosity and trepidation; he sensed they were only at the beginning of understanding this miraculous shift.

As they ventured deeper into the slum's winding heart, the murmurs of awe followed Davo and Emma like whispers of a thousand waking dreams, drifting through the air with the gentle caress of the morning breeze. The streets, usually teeming with the grating sounds of daily life—haggling vendors, sputtering engines, the endless bark of stray dogs—were eerily subdued, as though the entire slum held its breath. A strange sense of renewal clung to the atmosphere, thick and palpable, until a sharp, angry shout shattered the fragile stillness.

Ahead, nestled among the rusted sheets of corrugated metal and leaning wooden supports, stood one of the countless market stalls that peppered the slums. The stall's frame groaned under the weight of age and neglect, its roof patched with scraps of tarpaulin and fraying ropes. Normally, these stalls were guarded with an iron grip by the gangs who claimed them, their presence a warning to any would-be thieves. But today, fear had lost its hold.

Chaos raged in front of them. A mob of looters—men, women, even barefoot children—swarmed the stall, their hands snatching at whatever they could reach. Sacks of rice, tins of beans, bottles of murky water—everything was fair game. The gang enforcers, a ragtag group of young men with makeshift weapons and cheap bravado, struggled to hold the tide back. They swung bats and rusted pipes, their snarls laced with desperation, but their usual weapons of fear and pain had lost their power. The blows landed with force, but instead of crumpling under the attacks, the looters barely staggered, blinking in surprise before resuming their frenzied pillaging.

Davo stood frozen, his eyes locked on a wiry teenager with a scar tracing down his cheek. The boy swung a crowbar hard at a looter's arm—Davo expected the sickening crunch of bone, the cry of pain—but instead, the man barely flinched. He turned with a triumphant grin, yanked a sack of flour free, and vanished into the labyrinth of alleys. A few feet away, an elderly woman with a tightly wrapped scarf around her head wrestled a crate of fruit from a gang member's grip. When he tried to shove her aside, she merely chuckled, shrugging off his grasp as though he were no more than a passing breeze.

Emma tugged at Davo's sleeve, her eyes wide with disbelief. "They can't hurt them," she whispered. "It's like... they're untouchable."

Davo swallowed hard, his jaw tightening. "Yeah," he murmured, watching as another gang member—a burly youth with a bandana tied around his forehead—drove a wooden bat squarely into a man's ribs. The wood snapped with a dull crack, but the looter only glanced down, an amused smirk tugging at his lips before he stuffed loaves of bread into his coat and sauntered away.

The looters had realized it now. They moved with a newfound confidence, no longer hesitating, no longer fearful. A young girl no older than ten slipped through a tangle of legs, her small hands snatching a tin of powdered milk from an overturned crate before she darted under the table and vanished. A man with a once-missing hand, now regrowing before Davo's eyes, stood in awe, flexing his fingers even as he shoved packets of dried meat into his pockets, his eyes shining with equal parts disbelief and hunger.

It was like watching a swarm of locusts descend upon a dying field—unstoppable, insatiable, and utterly fearless.

The air thickened with the scent of spilled oil, crushed spices, and unwashed bodies. The noise grew to a deafening hum of hurried footsteps, the rustling of plastic bags, and the occasional triumphant shout as another item disappeared into needy hands. Boxes tumbled from shelves, scattering their contents across the cracked pavement, and the gang's once-menacing presence shrank to nothing, their authority reduced to hollow words lost in the growing frenzy.

Davo felt Emma tense beside him, and he tightened his grip on her wrist. "Come on," he murmured, his voice barely audible over the chaos. "We don't want to be here when they figure out no one can stop them."

Emma hesitated, her gaze lingering on the spectacle before them—this unraveling of control, this revelation that strength no longer ruled the streets. "This changes everything," she whispered, her voice carrying a mixture of awe and unease.

Davo nodded, his expression grim. "Yeah. And I don't think it's changing back."

Slipping into the narrow shadows of an adjacent alley, they moved swiftly, the sound of raucous laughter and triumphant cheers ringing in their ears. As they disappeared into the maze of the slum, one undeniable truth followed them—overnight, the rules of survival had been rewritten, and there was no telling what came next.

--

As Davo and Emma wandered through the slum's narrow, winding paths, it became achingly clear that the old rules of survival had collapsed overnight. Everywhere they turned, evidence of miraculous recovery reshaped the social order. Gone was the once-brutal hierarchy; the weak were suddenly unbound by frailty, and those who relied on intimidation found themselves powerless. Buoyed by their own inexplicable invulnerability, Davo and Emma strode past the sagging shanties with a newly minted confidence—no longer at the bottom of the chain if no one could be harmed.

The slum spread out in a surreal patchwork of awe and chaos. Men and women, once bent with age or illness, now tested their renewed limbs with childlike delight, running hands over faded scars and rolling stiff shoulders turned limber. An elderly man, tears streaking his weathered cheeks, broke into a gleeful sprint on legs that had previously refused to carry him at more than a shuffle. But wonder soon bled into lawlessness: thieves poured out of alleyways and ransacked roadside stalls, emerging with armfuls of rice, canned goods, and precious water. Gang enforcers who once terrorized these streets watched helplessly, their threats nullified by a reality in which no blow landed true. Davo glimpsed a ten-year-old boy dart beneath a swinging crowbar, snatching a bag of supplies without so much as a backward glance. The defeated enforcer could only stare, slack-jawed, as his power unraveled in broad daylight.

Beyond the slum's makeshift borders, the city's main roads presented a stark contrast. Towering compounds with imposing gates and well-manicured fences stood in jarring relief against the ragged sprawl behind them. Normally, these avenues would roar with snarling traffic and endless car horns, but today the asphalt was almost silent, save for an occasional car creeping by with wary drivers peering through windows. Davo's gaze swept over rows of fortress-like homes, each designed to repel the slum's encroachment. The usual array of uniformed guards was conspicuously absent, replaced by anxious property owners brandishing firearms that trembled in their carefully manicured hands.

Emma nudged him, her brow creased in concern. Ahead, a man in a crisp white shirt clutched a pistol on the steps of his estate, aiming at looters who crept closer by the second. He pulled the trigger—nothing but a hollow click. His eyes bulged in shock as he yanked the trigger again, each pull as futile as the last. The looters exchanged uncertain glances before rushing forward, emboldened by the man's powerless weapon.

"Just like you yesterday," Emma murmured, recalling Davo's own bizarre encounter with a failing gun. A knot tightened in his stomach at the memory, the realization that violence still lurked beneath the surface—only now, it was toothless in execution, yet no less dangerous in intent.

They continued in uneasy silence, weaving through deserted streets and abandoned cars. Emma eventually spoke, voice low and measured. "This isn't just about healing. Look around—nothing's random. It's like... something orchestrated all of this."

Davo's throat tightened. "What does that even mean?"

She shrugged, her gaze sweeping over the strange tableau of rejuvenated bodies and inoperable weapons. "It means we're dealing with something a lot bigger than we can see right now."

The hush between them deepened as they neared the district of glass-and-steel office buildings. Usually a hive of business-suited workers bustling in and out, the area now held only a few stragglers who hovered outside locked doors. They stood in tight clusters, tapping furiously at their phones, desperate for an explanation that refused to appear. Some pounded on barred entrances, growing more agitated with each unanswered knock.

At last, Davo and Emma halted before a run-down electronics store. Its flickering neon sign hummed softly in the morning light, casting a faint glow on the empty sidewalk. Where security guards might once have ordered them along, no one stood watch now. They crept closer to the grimy window, their silhouettes reflected like ghosts on the cracked glass.

Inside, several televisions glowed to life, revealing a well-groomed news anchor reading headlines over footage of clogged highways, halted trains, and confused crowds. Emma folded her arms, her voice barely above a whisper. "Let's see if this guy has any more of a clue than we do."

Davo didn't respond. His eyes stayed fixed on the screen, caught between dread and curiosity, waiting—just like everyone else—for an answer that might never arrive.

Davo and Emma stood rooted in front of the electronics store, their reflections faintly visible in the dim glow of the flickering television screens. Their clothing, tattered from years of rough living, hung loosely on their thin frames, but they barely noticed the chill creeping through the suddenly still streets. Onscreen, the newscast showed images they'd already seen firsthand: patients rising miraculously from hospital beds, doctors peering in disbelief at X-rays that no longer showed fractures or disease, and once-crippled citizens now standing straight-backed, eyes shining with newly discovered hope.

Behind the anchor's composed facade, an undercurrent of panic lurked in her hurried voice. "Reports continue to pour in from hospitals across the city, confirming unprecedented recovery rates. We're awaiting official statements from health authorities, but for now, it appears that—" Her sentence cut off abruptly, replaced by live footage from a news van rattling through deserted avenues.

Davo pressed a dirt-streaked hand to the window, the cold glass prickling against his palm. Towering skyscrapers glinted in the early sun, reflecting a city brought to a halt. Highways, once roaring with engines and blaring horns, lay eerily silent save for a trickle of cars edging along. As the camera panned across hollow-eyed onlookers in front of shuttered businesses, the reporter's voice grew tense: "Essential workers haven't shown up. Shops remain closed, and with law enforcement essentially powerless, isolated looting continues unchecked."

Emma cast a worried glance at Davo. "I hate to say it," she muttered, "but this looks even worse than the slums."

Her words found an echo on the screen as the camera shifted to scenes of ransacked storefronts. People darted in and out, laden with stolen goods, while shop owners hung back, faces twisted in a mixture of anger and resignation. Without the threat of harm or retribution, thieves roamed openly, emboldened by the knowledge that no one could truly stop them.

The broadcast switched to the familiar sight of a power station on the outskirts of the city. Its towering pylons and tangled wires looked ominously dormant. "We're receiving unconfirmed reports," the reporter said, voice shaking slightly, "that staff here have abandoned their posts. If true, our city's power grid could be at risk."

A prickling sense of dread crept along Davo's spine. He glanced at Emma, who gazed upward, blinking against the hazy glow of a sun struggling to pierce the city's smog. Her expression said it all—if the power went, it would only deepen the chaos.

In that moment, the televisions flickered and died. One by one, neon signs extinguished down the block like a row of dominoes toppling in silence. The hush that followed felt heavier than before, as though the city itself were holding its breath. A few pedestrians stopped in their tracks, calling out questions that went unanswered. The pungent smell of stale exhaust and garbage lingered, while the distant sound of scrawny dogs rummaging through trash bins underscored the creeping sense of unease.

Emma spotted people around them tapping furiously on their phones, faces twisting with frustration. "It's not just the power," she murmured. "Everything's going down."

A businessman growled in disbelief as he tried—and failed—to coax any life from his sleek device. Others lifted their phones high, searching for a signal that refused to appear. A faint chorus of curses and exasperated sighs rose, reminding Davo of a cornered animal's snarl—frightened, defensive, ready to lash out. Nearby, a group of teenagers huddled together, exchanging looks of mounting fear while their dead screens offered them no answers.

"This isn't good," Emma whispered. Her gaze locked with Davo's, and he could almost feel the accelerated rhythm of her heartbeat mirrored in his own.

He nodded, jaw clenched. "No," he agreed. "And it's not over."

A tense hush fell over the business district, usually abuzz with daybreak hustle and churning traffic. Now, it seemed caught in a breathless pause, teetering on the edge of something vast and unknown. Without a word, Davo took Emma's hand, and they slipped away from the darkening storefronts.