Nova Haven glittered at night like a jeweled crown. From the distance of The Undercity, those lights looked almost unreal — as if the whole skyline were some elaborate stage set for a play the Smithen family would never be invited to watch. Towering skyscrapers in Titan's Row pierced the clouds; neon signs along The Waterfront shimmered on the waves; rooftop bars roared with laughter and music. But none of that mattered here.
Here, the streets were cracked, the lampposts flickered, and the shadows moved in ways that made you want to cross to the other side.
The Smithens' apartment sat wedged above a pawn shop on Juniper Street — the kind of place where the air always smelled faintly of fried oil and damp concrete. Seven of them lived in two small bedrooms. The walls were thin enough to hear the neighbors arguing at 3 a.m., but thick enough to trap the heat in summer and the cold in winter.
Ethan Smithen had once been a man who could fill a room with his voice. As a real estate agent, he'd worn pressed suits and shaken hands with developers in the Financial District. Now, the illness had whittled him down to a frail shadow. He spent most days in bed, coughing quietly, his eyes half-closed as if he were listening to some faraway sound no one else could hear.
Avery, his wife, had aged in fast-forward. Her hands were calloused from hawking cheap, gold-plated jewelry on the sidewalks near The Arts District, dodging security guards who didn't want "street clutter" near their galleries. Her voice was hoarse from shouting over traffic, pitching her necklaces to passersby who barely glanced her way.
Damian, the eldest at twenty-two, carried the weight of the family like an invisible anvil on his shoulders. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a permanent tension in his jaw, he'd tried everything from reselling electronics to hustling rideshare gigs — each venture collapsing under bad luck, bad timing, or worse, bad people. Still, he refused to give in. In a city like Nova Haven, ambition was oxygen, and Damian would choke before he let himself breathe too little.
His siblings dreamed the kind of dreams that bloomed best in hardship: Sophia, fresh out of high school, wanted to walk international runways; Ava, a sophomore in high school, imagined herself saving lives in pristine hospital corridors; Lily, still in middle school, swore she'd one day own a jewelry empire to rival the elite boutiques of The Waterfront. The youngest, Asher, had no dream yet — and in this city, that was almost dangerous. Nova Haven was quick to give you one, whether you wanted it or not.
The day before everything changed, it had been another ordinary humiliation.
They'd been on their way back from a street market, Damian helping Avery carry the unsold necklaces. A black SUV rolled up beside them. Out stepped Ryan, a loan shark whose reputation stretched from The Undercity to the edge of Titan's Row. He had the kind of smile that said he already owned the ending to whatever story you were in. His men — thick-necked, leather-jacketed, and heavy with tattoos — fanned out.
It happened fast. Words became shoves, shoves became insults. One of the thugs reached for Ava's wrist. Asher, small but furious, shoved him back, only to catch a brutal kick to the stomach that sent him gasping to the pavement.
Damian didn't think. He lunged at the man, jabbing hard at his throat, then smashing his forehead into the thug's nose. Blood spattered onto the sidewalk. The others swarmed him, dragging him off, fists and boots raining down. Avery screamed, throwing herself forward, begging, until one of them yanked her back by the arm.
She offered them the last of her cash — money meant for Ethan's medication — her voice breaking. They snatched it, but not before Ryan stepped close, his cologne mixing with the stench of cigarette smoke.
"You want to pay down your family's debt?" he said, his gaze sliding from Avery to Sophia. "Come by Raven's. We'll make arrangements." His grin widened. "Don't keep me waiting." Then, without hurry, he slapped Avery across the face.
When they left, they took the air with them, leaving only the sound of Avery's sobs and Asher's shallow breaths.
Now, a day later, Damian stood in the city's old northern field — one of the last open spaces in the Undercity. The grass swayed in the evening wind, but he barely noticed. He leaned against a tree, cigarette in hand, staring at the glow of Titan's Row on the horizon. He could still feel the thugs' fists on his ribs, hear Ryan's voice in his head.
He took a long drag, exhaling smoke that curled upward into the fading light.
For the first time, he didn't just feel angry. He felt something sharper — a clarity so sudden it was almost frightening. He saw the city for what it was: a game. And in Nova Haven, there were only two kinds of players — those who took, and those who were taken from.
He flicked the cigarette into the grass, crushed it under his boot, and stood up. Dust clung to his jeans, but he didn't brush it off this time. His eyes fixed on the skyline. Somewhere up there, in those glittering towers, the people who ran this city lived untouched by nights like yesterday's.
That was going to change.
Damian started walking down the highway toward Nova Haven, the sound of distant traffic growing louder with each step.
And though the night hadn't yet fallen, somewhere in the city's beating heart, the game had already begun.