The next morning, he woke up with a grumbling stomach.
He got up slowly and dragged himself to the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face before brushing his teeth with the last bit from the flattened tube.
The mirror in front of him had a crack going down the center, but he barely noticed it anymore. He stared at his reflection. He looked like he hadn't slept for days, with dark circles under his silver eyes. His hair was a mess, jet black and uncut for months. It had grown down to his shoulders in uneven strands. His face looked thinner than he remembered, the angles a little sharper.
He looked tired of life. Or maybe he was.
He was pulled from his reverie by a sharp growl in his stomach, a familiar hollow ache."Four days," he whispered, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "New record."
It had been four days since he had eaten last. He ran out of money even before then, but he was fortunate to have lunch with Uncle Ben.
Ben didn't have much either, with everything that happened with his workshop. Even before that, he always found a way to pay me or treat me to lunch. He never said it out loud, but Adrian knew the man felt responsible for him. Maybe because of his father. Perhaps just because Ben still believed in decency, even when no one else did.
After he lost his job, he spent all his time searching for work but didn't manage to find anything. Two weeks and nothing. There was little work in the slums, and he wasn't even presentable enough to make it past the checkpoint into the city.
He could ask Uncle Ben for a little help, maybe a small loan to get back on his feet. But he hated the thought of being even more of a burden. "Forget it," he muttered, shaking the thought away.
He walked back into the room and pulled on a black shirt, the one that was still in the best condition. A bit loose on him now, but at least it didn't have any visible holes.
He still had a few options left to check out. They weren't exactly legal, or even safe, but at this point, they were the only ones he could think of. If everything goes well, he might even be able to have a meal today. Or tomorrow. That was good enough.
"If I don't get stabbed," he said under his breath, forcing a half-smile.
He returned to the cracked mirror and did what he could to tame his hair, running his fingers through the tangled strands in a half-hearted attempt to look presentable.
He grabbed his coat from the chair and headed out.
The hallway smelled of damp concrete and old mold, a scent that clung to the walls and never left. He barely noticed it anymore. One of the neighbors' kids was crying behind a thin door, and somewhere upstairs, a couple argued in hushed, exhausted tones.
He passed the peeling door at the end of the hall and stepped into the morning fog.
The air outside was thick and acrid, stinging faintly at the back of his throat. He didn't even flinch. It had been getting worse for years.
There were laws meant to protect the environment, but with most inspectors getting their cut, no one was doing anything to enforce them. There was no profit in fixing it, so the politicians didn't bother.
The streets were quieter than usual, probably still shaken from the air raid siren the night before. The few buses that still came to the slums had already come and gone, taking with them the few people who still had permits to work beyond the slums.
He walked along the cracked pavement, stepping over a man curled up near a broken streetlamp. The man didn't move. Maybe asleep. Maybe not. Adrian didn't check.
You learn not to, after a while.
He was headed to an old acquaintance from the days when life was better. He had helped quiet a few kids when he was visiting the apartment with his mother. They always brought food and clothing for the kids in the slums.
His destination was an old building located just a few blocks away. That was where he could find Alex. Or so he thought.
It had been a while since Adrian last saw Alex. He was one of the kids his mother had helped, always bringing food and clothing, offering a roof when Alex was kicked out, and finding him jobs to give him a shot at a better life.
He was a good kid, two years younger than Adrian, but always getting into trouble. The last Adrian had heard, Alex was running with one of the smuggling gangs.
That was exactly why Adrian was looking for him now. He needed a job.
That was exactly why Adrian was looking for him now. He needed a job.
Not this kind of job, though. Smuggling paid, sure, but the odds of making it out alive weren't great. He'd avoided it for that very reason. But at this point, survival was already a gamble. Starving quietly didn't seem like a better alternative.
He crossed into the part of the slums where he always kept one hand in his pocket, right over the spot where his wallet used to be. Old habit. There wasn't anything left to steal now, but that didn't mean someone wouldn't try.
The streets thinned out the deeper he walked into the district. The buildings here were older, patched with scrap metal and tarps, some leaning inward as if they were too tired to stand. Broken glass glittered in the gutters, catching what little light managed to pierce through the thick smog above.
Even the slums had the "bad part of town".
A group of kids stood around a barrel fire. One of them watched him with wary eyes until he passed, then turned back to warming his hands. Further down, a man argued with a vendor over the price of synthetic bread, his voice raw with desperation.
This part of the slums had a different air to it — quieter, but not in a peaceful way.
If Adrian didn't look like he hadn't eaten in weeks, some group would probably have approached him by now, looking to rob whatever little he had left. Hunger made people desperate, and desperate people did desperate things.
Adrian turned the corner and spotted the building. A three-story building with peeling paint and faded graffiti, barely visible now against the weathered walls. Most of the windows were boarded up or covered with whatever materials people could find. A handful still had glass, catching the light like a quiet luxury in a place that had long forgotten such things. The entryway was covered in graffiti, the door hanging slightly off its hinges. He stepped inside without knocking.
He paused at the steps, resting one hand on the rusted railing.
His legs ached more than they should've. Just a few blocks, and already he felt winded. Hunger gnawed at him with a sharpness that was hard to ignore now.
He sat on the bottom step for a minute, catching his breath. His stomach growled again, louder this time. He pressed his hand over it as if that might quiet the noise.
A moment later, he stood, brushed the dust off his coat, and stepped inside without knocking.
The air inside was the same as all the buildings in the slums — damp and heavy with the smell of mold.
The stairwell creaked under his weight as he climbed, the metal railing cold and slightly sticky under his fingers. The walls were stained with old water damage and covered in faded posters, some peeling away to reveal even older ones beneath.
By the time he reached the second floor, his breath was shallow. He paused again, leaning against the wall for support. His vision blurred slightly at the edges.
"Come on," he whispered to himself, forcing his legs to move again.
He climbed the last flight slowly, each step feeling steeper than the last. At the top, he stopped in front of a black door with chipped paint and a dent in the middle.
This was it. Alex's place. Or at least, it had been.
He raised his hand and knocked.
No answer.
He waited a few seconds and knocked again, a little louder this time. Still nothing.
He glanced down the hall — empty. Just peeling paint, dim light, and the hum of a dying wall fixture. He knocked a third time, then pressed his ear to the door, listening for any sign of movement inside.
Silence.
With a quiet sigh, he lowered himself to the floor and leaned back against the wall beside the door. His knees pulled up to his chest, arms resting loosely over them.
He'd wait. He didn't have anywhere else to be.
Maybe Alex had just stepped out. Maybe he still lived here at all. Either way, Adrian wasn't leaving yet. This was the only lead he had left — and even if it wasn't much, it was more than nothing.
The hallway was cold, the floor unforgiving, but he didn't mind. He let his head rest back against the wall and closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the building breathe around him, distant footsteps, the buzz of a fly, a baby crying faintly somewhere below.
He would wait.