The beginning

The day hadn't always been this tense. It started the same way most of Hope's days did—slipping through the city's veins, dodging the pulse of danger like a shadow that knew better than to get caught in the light.

The streets of the outskirts were a living thing, crawling with people just desperate enough to get violent. Gangs marked their territory with spray paint and blood, their enforcers prowling like wolves, looking for someone stupid enough to cross them. But Hope wasn't stupid. He moved with purpose, eyes down, steps quiet, blending into the background like he wasn't even there.

He passed a group of rough-looking scavengers arguing over the spoils of a busted-up market stall. One of them glanced his way, eyes narrowing like he was considering Hope as the next easy mark. But Hope kept walking, body loose, unthreatening. Nothing to see here. By the time the scavenger made up his mind, Hope was already gone, slipping into an alley and vanishing like smoke.

That was his trick—don't look like a threat, don't look like a target. Just another ghost in a city full of the forgotten.

By the time the sky started to darken, he'd made his way back to his hideout—a crumbling apartment building on the edge of the district, half-swallowed by the ruins around it. Most people thought it was unstable, ready to collapse at any moment. But Hope knew the truth. It was his sanctuary, a place no one dared to follow.

He climbed through a hole in the wall two floors up, navigating the broken stairwell like he was walking on solid ground. The room he called home wasn't much—just four cracked walls, a mattress stuffed with scavenged cloth, and a loose floorboard where he kept his supplies. But it was his, and it was safe.

Dropping his pack with a quiet sigh, he pulled out the day's haul: a few batteries, the broken comm device, and the chipped knife. Not much, but it'd keep him fed for a couple more days.

He sat on the edge of the mattress, staring at the knife's dull blade. His reflection in the metal was faint, but enough to remind him of who he was. Dark eyes, sharp features, a mess of black hair that never stayed in place. His face was a mask he'd worn for years, one that told the world he didn't care, that he didn't need anyone.

But sometimes, late at night, when the city's noise faded into a distant hum, he'd wonder if that mask had become more than just a defense. If maybe, just maybe, it was all that was left of him.

But there was no time for thoughts like that. In this world, caring was a weakness, and Hope had learned the hard way that weakness got you killed.

He leaned back, letting the exhaustion of the day settle into his bones. Tomorrow would be the same. Avoid trouble, scavenge just enough to survive, and stay invisible.