I am the scum of this city.
A curse spat from the lips of every man, woman, and child who knew my name. They call me
filth. Vermin. The shadow that crawls in the gutters. The thief who killed his own parents. And
you know what? They're right. I did.
I was twelve. The gang had given me my first job — break into an old warehouse and snatch a
shipment of stolen military tech. I took the job because I thought it would make me a man.
Thought I'd earn respect. All I earned was a bloodstain that's never left my hands.
I was good at it. Too good.
The gang used me like a blade. They sent me into places no one else would go. Homes, shops,
government buildings. And I stole — money, weapons, drugs, secrets. They fed me scraps and
whispered promises they never meant to keep.
Then came the night everything fell apart.
They asked me to hit a private collector. Said the old man hoarded priceless artifacts, some kind
of black-market relics. I slipped in like I always did. Took what they asked for. Didn't ask
questions. But the man I stole from wasn't some petty collector. He was worse. And he wasn't
the forgiving type.
He sent his people looking for me.
They didn't find me.
They found my parents.
They dragged them from our home. Beat them. Tortured them. And when they didn't give up my
name — because even after everything, my parents loved me — they slit their throats. Left their
bodies in the street like a message written in blood.
I came home to the screams of neighbors and the stench of death.
And I knew… It was all because of me.
The neighborhood cursed me. Spat at me when I walked past. Whispers turned to shouts.
Shouts turned to stones. I was dead to them. A walking ghost of sin. A murderer. A plague.
All except for her.
My grandmother.
She opened her door to me when the world slammed every other one shut. Fed me when I was
starving. Held me when the nightmares clawed at my throat. Her hands — frail, trembling,
wrinkled with age — were the only warmth left in my world.
But even that… I know I'll destroy it.
Because death follows me like a loyal dog. And I'm the master holding the leash.
I'll be the reason she dies. Just like I was the reason for my parents.
The man came to me in the alley behind McCall's Pawn.
It was raining — soft, slow, like the city itself was crying. I'd just snatched a wallet off some
drunk bastard when I saw him standing there.
Tall. Thin. Dressed in a black coat that hung off him like shadow. His face… God, his face.
Skin pale like cracked porcelain. Lips thin, colorless. His eyes were the worst — gray, empty,
dead. Like twin graves staring into my soul.
"You're the thief they call Rat," he said.
I didn't answer. Just stared.
He smiled — a slow, reptilian curl of the mouth.
"I have a job for you," he whispered, voice curling through the rain like a serpent. "Big pay.
Enough to fill your pockets… and keep your dear grandmother breathing."
His voice was low, slick, like oil on water. It wasn't a question. It was a fact. He knew me. Knew
her. And at that moment, I felt the leash tightening again.
I wanted to say no. God, I wanted to. But hunger bites deeper than pride.
No one else would hire me. Not even for trash work. The world hated me too much for that. And
my grandmother… she was getting weaker. Medicine costs money. Food costs money. Living
costs money.
So I said yes.
He told me the target was a small artifact in an abandoned chapel on the east side. Old, dusty,
worthless to most.
But it wasn't worthless to him.
"Bring it to me before midnight," he said. "And you'll be paid more than you've ever seen."
I asked him what it was.
He smiled again. That dead smile.
"Your future."
Looking back…
That was the choice that truly sealed my fate.
Not the gang. Not the thefts. Not even the blood on my hands.
No.
The real mistake was saying yes to him.
That's where everything truly began.