Ash Valeender pulled the trashcan out from the gate and dragged it toward the back of the truck. He gripped the tied black bag, swung it over the edge, and waited for the compactor to crush it. Then he climbed into the passenger seat without speaking.
Marley sat in the driver's seat and started the engine. The truck shook a little as it rolled forward.
"We doing the whole route?" Ash asked while putting on his gloves again.
"Yeah," Marley said. "All the way through Han Alley, past the main road, then loop back through District Nine."
Ash looked out the window. "I hate driving past the towers."
"They're part of the route," Marley said. "You'll see them no matter what."
"I know. It doesn't make it better."
Marley didn't respond. He switched gears and turned left at the broken streetlight.
Ash crossed his arms. "I don't get how they still live like that. They sit up there drinking clean water while we're down here scraping garbage off pavement."
"They were born with everything," Marley said. "They don't even know how bad it is for the rest of us."
"They don't want to know," Ash said. "They act like they care about poverty, then they keep raising the prices on food, water, and rent."
"They think we're poor because we're lazy."
"We work twelve hours a day," Ash said with a bit of sarcasm.
"They don't carry anything," Marley said. "Someone else always does it for them."
The truck passed a luxury sedan parked on the corner. It was spotless, and there wasn't a single scratch on the surface.
Ash stared at it. "You think that guy even knows what this district smells like?"
"He probably complains when the wind blows this direction."
---
Ash went home after the shift. The truck dropped him off two blocks away, and he walked the rest of the distance without speaking.
His building had cracked walls and rust stains that reached all the way to the third floor. The front door didn't close properly, and the hallway lights had been broken for months.
He reached his unit and kicked the door open with the side of his foot. The lock didn't work anymore. Inside, the place smelled like spoiled oil and damp clothes.
The sink was full of unwashed plates, and flies hovered around the edge of a leftover soup bowl. He didn't care.
He dropped his bag near the couch, which had no legs, and went straight to the kitchen.
He opened a cabinet, pulled out a half-empty pack of instant noodles, and lit the stove. The flame was weak, but it worked.
He filled a pot with tap water and set it down.
While the water boiled, his phone rang. The screen flashed with the word "Mom."
He answered but didn't put it on speaker. "Yeah?"
His mother's voice came through. "Ash? Are you home already? How was work?"
"It was trash," he said. "Like always."
She paused. "And your house? Did you finally clean it?"
"It's fine."
"I know it's hard," she said. "But you shouldn't live like that. You can always come back home."
"I'm not coming back."
"You don't have to be so cold," she said. "I just—"
"Look," Ash cut in. "I need ten thousand won."
There was silence on the line.
She spoke slowly. "Ash… you already took—"
"I said I need it."
"Ash, your debt is already—"
"I know how much it is," he snapped. "Ten million. I know. You think I forget?"
"No, but—"
"I don't care what you think," he said. "Just send it. It's only ten thousand."
"But it adds up—"
"It's already added up," he said. "So stop pretending like ten thousand's going to change anything."
There was another pause.
"…I'll send it tonight," she said quietly.
Ash didn't thank her.
The pot was still on the stove while Ash held the phone between his shoulder and ear. Steam rose from the water as the instant noodles floated unevenly.
He didn't stir them.
He didn't even look at them.
Behind him, a dry shirt hanging off a plastic chair leaned too close to the open flame.
The edge caught fire without a sound. It started small, just a curl of black creeping up the fabric, but it spread fast.
By the time Ash smelled the burning, the flames had already climbed up the sleeve and reached the back of the chair.
He turned around and saw it—bright orange and rising.
"Shit—"
He dropped the phone and grabbed a plastic cup from the sink.
He filled it with water and threw it at the flames, but it barely made a difference.
He grabbed another cup and threw that too, but the fire had already spread to the curtain beside the window.
From the floor, the phone was still on.
"Ash?" his mother said. "Ash, what was that noise?"
He didn't answer.
"Ash? Are you still there?"
He backed away as the curtain collapsed into the stove.
The fire leapt across the counter and reached the old newspapers piled near the microwave.
Smoke filled the room, and Ash coughed hard as he ran to the sink, turned on the tap, and tried to fill a bucket—but the pressure was too low. Only a trickle came out.
"Ash? Say something! What's going on?"
He grabbed the bucket anyway and threw what little water he had at the flames. It hissed, but it didn't stop.
"Ash! Answer me!"
He stepped back, panic in his eyes, and looked down.
His pants were on fire.
He slapped at them, but the fire climbed higher.
"ASH?!"
He looked at the phone, his face lit in orange and red, and he screamed at the top of his lungs.
"SHUT UP!"
The heat swallowed the room.
His clothes ignited fully.
He stumbled backward, hit the floor, and didn't get up.
His mother's voice was still on the line.
"Ash? Ash? What happened?"
---
Ash floated in silence.
There was no floor beneath him, no sky above, no sound except the dull pressure of his own thoughts.
Am I dead?
He asked the question, but there was no voice, no echo. Just the thought, suspended like everything else.
Then light appeared in front of him. It was artificial, sterile, and blue. A glowing square pulsed once in the dark.
[ASH VALEENDER HAS BEEN GIVEN A CLASS]
Ash blinked. He didn't move.
What?
The light expanded into an interface.
[CLASS ASSIGNED: TRASH COLLECTOR]
It paused.
"…No," he muttered. "No, no, no. What the hell is this?"
A deeper panel slid open underneath.
---
[CLASS INTERFACE – BASIC VIEW]
Name: Ash Valeender
Class: Trash Collector
Status: Deceased
Class Insight:
> A class forged from the lowest ranks of civilization. The Trash Collector specializes in the recovery, evaluation, and transformation of abandoned matter.
---
What the hell!? He was flabbergasted.
---
Passive Abilities Acquired:
Higher Intuition (Passive)
Instinctively detect the potential value of an object, even when degraded or incomplete.
Material Sense (Passive)
Gain spatial awareness of materials in your surroundings, including buried, rusted, or hidden objects. Range scales with familiarity.
Inventor Mentality (Passive)
Enables faster learning when dismantling, repairing, or modifying tools and devices. Supports unconventional problem solving.
---
Ash stared at the floating text. His jaw clenched.
"You've got to be kidding me."
The panel remained.
"I die in a fire, and this is what I get? Trash Collector? Seriously?"
He stepped forward, but there was no ground. He tried to push the interface away, but his hand passed through it. The screen didn't react.
"This has to be fake. This has to be some brain-dead dream cooked up by a dying neuron."
The panel flickered, but it didn't disappear.
"I didn't ask for a second chance," Ash said. "But if I get one, I'm not starting over in garbage."
No reply came.
The interface pulsed once more.
Then everything turned white.
The next moment, he woke up.
His back was pressed against dirt.
Something sharp dug into his ribs. His body was smaller and lighter. His limbs didn't match. He could breathe. Someone else's voice echoed through his throat, but he didn't speak.
He sat up, coughing once, then looked around.
He was behind a wooden house.
Two large people stood a few steps away. One of them held a metal club. The other was already reaching toward his pocket.
The one in front stepped forward.
"Hey kid! What are you waiting for!? Give me your coins!"