It was darker than usual tonight.
Lens didn't notice it at first. The city always looked half-dead from his window—broken streetlights, flickering neon, shadows crawling up cracked walls. But when he flipped the switch inside his apartment and nothing happened, the silence spoke louder than any protest.
"Damn… I forgot to pay the electric bill again," he muttered, scratching the back of his neck.
He stood there for a moment, staring into the black. The fridge hummed in defiance, but that was backup power—barely enough to keep the eggs cold. The rest of the apartment felt like a tomb. Not just because of the dark, but because of how long it had been since this place felt alive.
He lit a candle he kept on top of the microwave. He didn't do it out of sentiment—it just gave off enough light to stop him from tripping over old boxes and bills.
His place wasn't a mess because he was lazy. It was the kind of chaos that built up over time. Small neglects. Unpaid fines. Half-finished plans. Lost motivation. You didn't notice it at first. Then one day, you realized you were living in the wreckage of your own mind.
He walked to the small window above the sink. Outside, the city didn't care. People still moved like ants under yellow streetlight. The rich still laughed somewhere behind tinted glass. And the poor still pretended that they'd be okay if they just kept their head down.
Lens used to be like that. Keep the head down, don't ask questions. Survive. But lately, even survival felt like a scam.
The buzzer rang. He flinched.
Nobody ever visited him this late.
He opened the door slowly. Xing Li stood there, wearing that black windbreaker she always wore when things were about to go south. She didn't smile.
"You alright?" she asked, stepping inside without waiting for an answer.
Lens didn't stop her. He was too tired.
"Lights are out," he said simply.
"No kidding," she replied, glancing at the single flickering candle. "You forgot to pay again?"
"Yeah."
She dropped an envelope on the table. "Final notice. You've got seven days before they send someone."
Lens didn't touch it. He already knew what it was.
He sat on the couch, elbows on knees, head in his hands.Xing Li leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching him like she always did when he hit a low point. She wasn't judging. She just wanted to know when—if—he'd finally snap out of it.
"You've been stuck, Lens. For too long."
"I know."
"Do you?"
He didn't answer.
She looked toward the window, watching the quiet chaos of the street below.
"Remember the case last year?" she asked.
Lens didn't need more than that. He knew which one. The boy who got arrested for stealing bread. The one who never made it out of holding. Bruises on his neck. Suicide, they said. Lens knew it was a lie.
"Yeah. I remember."
"That was your breaking point," Xing Li said softly. "You stopped showing up after that. You stopped writing. Stopped talking. But it's still happening, Lens. Every day."
He rubbed his face, exhausted. "What do you want me to do? Stand in front of city hall and yell?"
"No," she said. "I want you to fight smart. Quiet. The way only someone like you can."
That caught his attention. He looked up.
"You want to start something?"
"I already did," she replied. "You've just been hiding while it burned."
Lens stood up, slowly. The look in his eyes had shifted. He wasn't angry. Not exactly. But something cold had settled inside him.
"Give me a name."
Yasmin nodded, pulling a folded sheet of paper from her coat.
"Start with this one. He's not the top, but he's protected. Runs off stolen welfare funds. Covers it with fake charity donations. Untouchable to most."
"Not to me."
Lens took the paper, staring at the name. Memories stirred. A past he tried to forget. People who played gods in a dying city.
Yasmin grabbed her keys. "Don't take too long. We don't have forever."
She left without another word.
The candle on the microwave flickered once, then went out.
Lens didn't move.
He didn't need light anymore.But somewhere deep inside, he knew—the past hadn't forgotten him. It had teeth. And sooner or later, it would bite.
There was a debt buried in the shadows of his childhood. A promise made when he was too young to understand its weight, and too stubborn to let it die.
One word pulsed through his mind like a heartbeat.
"Justice".
He whispered it to himself, almost afraid of how hollow it sounded.
Did it still exist in a world like this?
Or was it just another word—used, bent, sold to the highest bidder?
Lens didn't know. Not yet.
But he was about to find out.