A dim, flickering bulb swayed from the ceiling of the abandoned warehouse, its sickly yellow light casting long, jagged shadows across the cracked concrete floor. The air was thick with the stench of rust, damp wood, and stale cigarette smoke.
Somewhere in the distance, the faint hum of the city could be heard—muffled voices, the occasional rumble of a passing transport, the distant howls of the lawless night. But here, inside these cold walls, the world shrank to a single, grimy table where two men sat, playing a warped version of poker.
Cards flipped lazily between their fingers, chips clinking together with each calculated bet. A knife embedded deep into the wooden surface served as a makeshift divider between them, its hilt slick with sweat and old blood. One of the men, broad-shouldered with sunken eyes and a scar that ran from his temple to his jaw, let out a huff of irritation as he shuffled the deck.
"Where the hell is this damn courier?" he muttered, throwing a glance at the timepiece strapped to his wrist. "Takes a special kind of idiot to be this late."
His companion, leaner but no less imposing, leaned back in his chair, exhaling a cloud of acrid smoke. "Had to use an underground one," he said, voice low and raspy. "You know how it is. Special product, special measures. Those government ones ain't exactly reliable for these kinds of things, you know?"
"Tch." The first man spat on the floor, shaking his head. "Bet the bastard ran off with it."
"And if he did?" The lean man tapped the hilt of the knife, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. "We've got ways of finding his kind. Ain't worried."
Silence stretched between them for a moment, the rhythmic dripping of a leaking pipe filling the void. Then, a knock echoed from the heavy steel door at the far end of the warehouse.
Both men paused. Their eyes met.
"Finally." The scarred man pushed his chair back with an irritated grunt and motioned for his partner to follow.
They approached the door, their boots crunching against scattered debris. The lean man pressed his ear against the metal for a second before unlocking it with a sharp click. The door groaned open, revealing the hunched figure standing in the dim glow of the streetlamp outside.
The courier.
A ragged, hooded cloak draped over his thin frame, its edges stained with dirt and torn at the seams. Beneath the hood, only the faint glint of black eyes could be seen, sunken deep into a gaunt face smeared with city grime. His hands, pale and bony, clutched a small, wrapped package close to his chest.
Scarred Man sneered. "You've got to be shitting me. Look at this damn beggar, get out of here. No money for you shits"
The lean man, however, raised his hand to stop his friend. And instead, he stepped forward, eyes narrowing at the package. "That it?"
The courier gave a single, silent nod. Slowly, he uncurled his fingers and extended the package forward. The lean man took it without hesitation, giving it a quick shake before running his fingers over the wrapping.
"Only a bit of dust. No damage," he muttered, satisfied.
He turned on his heel, ready to walk away, when the courier coughed.
The two men stopped. Scarred Man raised an eyebrow. "The hell was that?"
The courier stretched his hand out slightly, palm facing up. Payment.
The lean man exchanged a glance with his partner before chuckling under his breath. Scarred Man, however, let out a bark of laughter. "You serious? The guy who gave you this should've paid you. Ain't our problem."
"He said—" The courier's voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. "He said you'd pay me. I walked a long way to transport this..."
The lean man tilted his head, as if considering it for a second. Then, slowly, he reached under his shirt.
A flash of metal.
The courier froze.
The man's fingers rested on the handle of a knife strapped to his waist. "Figure it out yourself, Outsider." His voice was cold, final. "You think I'm scared of the enforcers? If they saw your corpse in the gutter, they'd thank me for the damn favor."
Silence. The air thickened, pressing down on the courier's shoulders.
The courier's fingers twitched.
A thousand thoughts screamed inside his skull, each one clawing to break free. Take the knife. Smash the package. Tear his throat open. Make him pay.
But his body knew better. Because he knew he would just die in a couple of seconds.
Slowly, he lowered his hand and turned away.
"That's what I thought," Scarred Man muttered, shaking his head. As the courier stepped away from them, a sudden wet splatter struck his back.
Spit.
He stopped.
His hands trembled at his sides. His breath came slow, controlled—but only just. His shadow stretched long against the cold concrete, dark and trembling like something barely contained.
Behind him, the man who spat placed a hand on his knife again, amused. "Go on. Walk away with your life." His voice was mockingly gentle. "You should be thanking us for letting you keep it."
Luxerio, the courier, clenched his fists. How I wish I could fucking make you guys pay.
But that was not a possibility.
So today, like every other day, he walked away.
The steel door slammed shut behind him.
An hour later,
The city was restless.
Luxerio moved through the darkened streets, his footsteps barely making a sound against the worn asphalt. The city stretched endlessly around him—crumb, ing buildings stacked upon one another like skeletal remains, flickering neon signs casting fractured glows onto the cracked pavement.
The air was thick with the scent of damp garbage, burnt metal, and the lingering tang of ozone from distant electrical surges. A few figures lurked in the shadows, faces hollow and eyes sunken, watching him without interest. To them, he was just another ghost in this city of the forsaken.
But inside his mind, it was anything but quiet.
Frustration gnawed at his insides, curling and writhing like a parasite. He had spent nearly four hours walking, unable to afford transportation—not just because of the nature of the delivery, but because he had nothing. Not a single lick to his name. And for what? Three days without food, pushing my body past exhaustion, risking my damn life—only to be cheated out of my payment.
He had been cheated outright, spat on, humiliated. But what could he do? His jaw clenched as he turned a corner, stepping over a pile of discarded cans and broken glass. The answer was clear—
Nothing.
His fingers twitched at his sides, curled into fists before loosening again. He had no money, no strength, and no connections. Reporting those bastards was a joke—he was the one doing illegal work. And fighting them? That was even funnier. Not only were they armed, but even if they weren't, he was weak. His ribs still ached from the last time he had gotten into a scuffle, and that was months ago.
His body simply wasn't built for battle. His frame was too thin, his muscles barely enough to keep him standing, let alone fighting.
And, of course, the worst part of it all—
He was an Outsider.
The lowest caste of society. The ones without power, without value, without purpose. They were the leftovers—the ones who had lost everything when their worlds were swallowed by the Crossever Event. The ones deemed unfit to serve any real function, neither warriors nor workers, neither citizens nor criminals. Too weak to be of use, too insignificant to be protected.
Riffraff. Trash. Ghosts.
His fists clenched inside his tattered cloak, his nails digging into his palms. He hated it. He hated all of it. This world, this city, this existence, where he was forced to scrape by like a rat in the filth while others thrived. He never asked for this. None of them did. And sure, some had been blessed and given the chance to greatness and to claw their way to power—but that was the minority. The rest? They either died nameless in the alleys or were ground to dust under the weight of those who now ruled over them.
And when they were cheated like he was today?
Who would help them?
No one.
The city streets blurred as Luxerio pressed forward, his thoughts growing darker with each step. How long could he keep this up? The hunger was getting worse. He could feel his body slowly shutting down, his strength fading. If he didn't find a way to get money soon—
He exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders. No. Don't think about it.
But what choice did he have? He had already sold most of his organs. He had nothing left to give except—
No. Not yet.
Luxerio stopped near the entrance of a crumbling alley, leaning against a rusted pole as he pressed a hand against his side. His breath was uneven. Which organ could he sell next? One lung? Part of his liver? He had to keep the essentials. His kidneys were already gone.
"...How much would an eye go for?"
The thought made him sick. But not as much as the idea of starving to death.
He let out a shaky breath, pushing himself forward. He needed a distraction. Something, anything—
His gaze drifted to a nearby wall, lined with wanted posters.
Familiar sight. The city had no shortage of criminals. Murderers, thieves, debt runners. Luxerio barely spared them a glance as he walked past—until one made him stop.
His pulse skipped.
A side-profile of a young, sickly man with short, poorly cut dark hair and hollow black eyes. The quality of the image was awful, grainy and distorted, but it was enough.
It was him.
Luxerio's breath hitched. His legs locked in place as he stared, his mind racing. Why? Why the hell am I on a wanted poster?
He quickly looked down at the details, his vision blurring as he scanned the numbers.
5,000 Qulios.
His heart nearly stopped.
He felt the blood drain from his face. That was enough to secure a decent home in one of the mid-tier cities. Why the hell was he worth that much?
He forced his eyes further down. Class C Debt Evasion.
His blood ran cold.
No. No, no, no— His breath caught. Class C? That meant immediate collection. It meant he was no longer just at risk of being hounded by loan sharks—it meant they had put out a citywide bounty. He thought he had at least another month to scrounge something together. He hadn't even borrowed one percent of the bounty amount.
Luxerio stumbled back, the edges of his vision darkening with panic. They made him a target. A physical wanted poster meant only one thing—it was meant for the poor, the desperate, the ones who didn't rely on technology to get their information. Which meant most of the city already knew.
A bounty like this? It painted a target on his back.
He swore under his breath, his mind spiraling through every possible escape route. The city was a maze, but there were ways to disappear. He just needed time, needed to—
A deep voice rumbled behind him.
"What are you cursing about?"
Luxerio froze.
The night around him felt suddenly heavier, colder. The kind of cold that sank into the bones, that whispered of something far worse than debt collectors.
He felt like maybe tonight was the night.
The night he may die.