Before the Sun Fell

Aemon had never seen the city like this before.

The air down in Sector 3 was different—less polished, more real. He kept to the fringes, where the tall steel towers gave way to leaning buildings and cluttered streets. A mix of rust and neon. Noisy pipes, flickering signs, endless motion. His boots tapped against cracked sidewalks, and every step echoed in his mind louder than it did in the world.

He moved like a shadow, slipping through alleys, staying under awnings and overhangs. His hood stayed up, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched low like he belonged here—like he wasn't a target.

Like he wasn't running.

But he was.

Every second that passed without sirens felt borrowed.

Every quiet street was a miracle.

Still, the city had a rhythm. And if he listened, he could hear it.

Children yelling two blocks down. A vendor hawking oil-fried flatcakes on a corner. Someone playing a windpipe on the roof above him, the notes sharp and lonely. The further he got from his district, the more the rules changed. No uniform patrols here. No scanner poles every ten feet. People looked each other in the eye, then just kept walking.

Aemon passed under a scaffolding hung with drying clothes. Rain dripped from rusted pipes. His breath came slower now—controlled, if not calm. He hadn't eaten much, hadn't slept at all, but he kept going.

He needed distance.

He needed space to think.

And most of all, he needed to disappear.

By midday, he reached what looked like an old commercial row—signs in broken neon, some still blinking, others dead for years. Bars with tinted windows. A tech shop where spare parts and batteries were dumped on sidewalk blankets. He lingered near a kiosk selling fried rice and synthetic fish, the smell making his mouth water.

He wanted to ask for food, but the owner, a tall woman with metal threading her jaw, eyed him with suspicion. He moved on.

Aemon ducked into a side alley and crouched low behind a stack of trash bins. He took the last ration bar from his pack—crushed and stale—and chewed it slowly, forcing it down like gravel. His stomach wasn't satisfied, but it was something.

He didn't know how long he sat there, listening to the low roar of the city. Watching the sky shift overhead, light dimming shade by shade. It hit him then:

He was truly alone.

No one was coming to find him—not unless it was to lock him up.

His father would've come home by now. Would've seen the bed, the bag gone. Would've looked in the mirror and known. Would've put the pieces together.

He knows.

Aemon's throat tightened.

The Guard would be called. A tracker dispatched. A search initiated.

If they hadn't started yet, they would soon.

He wiped his mouth and stood.

No more hiding.

He needed a plan.

His next steps took him past a train yard choked in weeds and graffiti. The rails twisted off into broken tunnels, long abandoned. No drones flew overhead here. No scanners. Just rust and silence.

He followed the tracks a while, boots crunching over gravel, until he found a service ladder leading down into a lower level. The undercity.

Aemon hesitated at the edge. The light was thinner here. The wind colder. Like the world didn't want him to come down.

But he did.

He climbed slowly, rung by rung, until his boots hit concrete again. The air was damp, musty, and echoed in strange ways. Flickering emergency lights blinked along the walls, most dead, casting long, uneven shadows. The station stretched out before him—a skeleton of its former self.

Benches covered in dust. Vending machines long busted open. A directory map so faded he could barely make out the layout.

This place had been abandoned for years.

But it was shelter.

Maybe.

He wandered deeper.

At first, it felt like refuge. Quiet. Isolated. No eyes. No patrols. The city above forgotten.

But the longer he stayed, the more wrong it felt.

Something about the stillness didn't sit right.

A humming, just beneath hearing. A vibration in the floor.

And then… a whisper.

He turned. Nothing.

Just air moving through broken vents.

Still, it set his nerves on edge.

He retreated to a spot behind an overturned kiosk and rested against the wall. Pulled the blanket from his bag and wrapped it around his shoulders.

He let himself breathe.

And then he heard something again.

Not a whisper.

A footstep.

Aemon froze.

His heartbeat pounded like a drum in his ears. He pressed back against the wall, holding his breath.

Another step. Soft. Measured. Far down the tunnel.

He couldn't see anyone.

He stayed still.

Then silence again.

And silence, he realized, was worse.

Because now his thoughts raced. What if someone else was already living down here? What if it was another runaway? Or worse—a Guard scout, tracking for thermal signatures?

He couldn't stay here. Not now. Not without knowing what else was watching.

He waited several more minutes, until he was sure the sound was gone—or maybe had never been there.

Then he slipped back out the way he came.

The city greeted him with a deeper shade of dusk.

Lights shimmered above. High towers glowed like the bones of giants, veins of orange and violet pulsing through their glass walls. Skycraft zipped overhead, blinking trails in their wake.

Night was falling fast.

And with it came a different kind of danger.

Aemon pulled his hood tighter. The street had changed in his absence. People moved faster. Louder. Harsher. Fewer smiles. More weapons.

The guards didn't patrol these levels. Not often.

But that didn't mean it was safe.

He passed a group of men smoking near a shuttered pawn shop. One of them looked his way a little too long. Aemon crossed the street without slowing.

He followed his feet, not even knowing where they were taking him anymore. Just… away. From danger. From notice.

From whatever that sound had been below ground.

The wind picked up as he entered a narrower street. The scent of garbage and steam. A broken sign above read: Hydra Wash—OPEN in flickering letters, though the building beneath was boarded shut.

His stomach growled again.

His feet hurt.

And his legs were beginning to feel like they'd been dipped in concrete.

He stopped at the edge of a raised platform overlooking a lower district—Sector 7, maybe. A maze of rooftops and alleys, with smoke curling from rusted vents and low fires flickering in oil drums.

He watched as the sun bled its last colors across the skyline. Orange. Then crimson. Then indigo.

And just like that… it was gone.

The cold set in.

Aemon pulled the blanket tighter around him. He stood there a long moment, breathing in the city's night air.

And finally, the thought landed.

I need shelter.

Not maybe. Not eventually.

Now.

He couldn't afford another hour out here. Not with night falling. Not with eyes on every corner.

Not like this.

He had to find somewhere. Anywhere.