(For the right atmosphere, I recommend reading this chapter with -Bea Miller – Playground- playing in the background)
As he walked down the middle of the street, he kept his ears open to the conversations around him.
Though rare, he sometimes saw two or three people walking side by side, exchanging a few words.
Most spoke of their work in the mines, of debts to repay, or of trivial gossip.That was how he learned, almost absentmindedly, that Cassus was sleeping with his supervisor's wife at the factory.
But among all these futile exchanges, one conversation suddenly caught his attention.
— Those damn enforcers treat us like garbage again! They searched Berni when he came back from Piltover, stole all the money he had on him, and then beat him bloody in an alley.
— We should find those bastards and break their legs!
— Keep your voice down, idiot! You want everyone to hear your nonsense? If word gets out, it won't be their legs we'll be picking up—it'll be ours.
A heavy silence settled over the small group before they resumed walking more discreetly, shoulders hunched.
Newt frowned.
He had just gathered his first crucial piece of information: here, the enforcers weren't there to protect. They oppressed, extorted, beat people—and everyone knew it, but no one dared admit it aloud.
They had also mentioned something called Piltover. Surely the name of a city, or a nearby district.
He deduced two things:
First, people here seemed able to travel there. Berni had been "coming back from Piltover," which meant a passage existed between the two places.
Second, Piltover seemed tied to money, perhaps prosperity: no one returned from there empty-handed, which explained why the enforcers had bothered to rob the poor man.
That meant there was at least one place better off than this one, maybe even rich. And where there is wealth, there is also power, hierarchy, and domination.
Newt sighed.
He had been here less than thirty minutes and had probably already identified the root of this slum's misery. That proved it wasn't a well-kept secret.
Now the real question was how wide the gap between the two places truly was.
Was it a simple difference in comfort… or an unbridgeable gulf?
But before that, he had to answer a more urgent need.
His empty stomach reminded him of the hierarchy of priorities. His dry lips and raw throat did the rest.
Food. Water.
Basic needs before strategy.
He had several options in mind.
He could try to find honest work and earn his meals with dignity. But considering the number of homeless people he had seen in just thirty minutes of walking, he doubted his chances. If grown adults were already fighting over scraps, what chance did a scrawny thirteen-year-old have?
He could also beg.
The thought alone made him chuckle. Not out of pride, but because he knew no one here would give anything to a street kid. In a place where everyone struggled to survive, charity was no currency.
That left only theft.
But as soon as he looked down at his thin arms, he saw a clear vision of the future: himself, sprawled in a dark alley, face bloodied after a beating. A child like him had neither strength, nor network, nor reputation to intimidate anyone.
But… if he couldn't act alone, nothing said he couldn't act with others.
The idea, already present for a few minutes, began to take root. Gather a group of children his age, and help each other survive. Alone, they were prey. Together, they could become a pack.
He wasn't the only street child. In barely half an hour, he had spotted several: lurking in corners, sleeping against walls, or digging for scraps in garbage heaps.
But he didn't want all of them.
No. He was looking for one in particular.
A look. The look of despair.
Because if you ever had to entrust someone with an important task, you shouldn't choose the smartest, nor the strongest.
Choose the one most desperate to succeed.
Such a person doesn't back down. They have nothing left to lose, and everything to gain. It is in such allies that the most tenacious wills are born.
Newt allowed himself a faint, almost imperceptible smile.
He had found his target.
There, at the corner where the street met a narrow, shadowed alley, stood a small, fragile figure dressed in rags.
He looked in even worse shape than Newt: his legs trembled under his own weight, his skin had taken on a grayish hue, and every movement seemed to cost him dearly.
In his clenched hand was a makeshift weapon: a jagged piece of rusted metal, sharpened to a point. Not a knife—he couldn't afford one. Just a weapon of desperation.
But it wasn't the weapon that had caught Newt's attention.
It was the look.
Eyes wild, teetering on the edge of madness, his mouth hanging open, each breath ragged and uneven. A mixture of fear, hunger, and pent-up rage. A gaze ready to tip into the irreparable.
And yet… those eyes were fixed. Focused.
They were locked onto a man further down the street, a weary worker walking slowly, carrying four loaves of bread under his arm.
Newt studied the child.
His emaciated body, protruding ribs, hollow cheeks. There was no doubt: this child hadn't eaten in far too long. A week, maybe more.
The metal shook in his hand.
Each step of the man with the bread echoed like unbearable temptation.
Newt inhaled slowly.
This was what he had been looking for: a cornered mind, a being so desperate that failure was no longer an option. But he had to act quickly. Because this boy, alone, would find nothing but death at the end of his hunger and his rusted weapon.
The boy's knees bent, ready to spring, but Newt understood instantly what would happen: he had neither the strength, nor the speed, nor the strategy. In ten seconds, he would be on the ground, his face smashed under boots.
Newt stepped forward silently and gently laid a hand on the boy's bony shoulder.
The child flinched, whipping around, eyes wide and crazed, ready to drive his shard of rusted metal into the flesh of whoever stood behind him.
— Easy, murmured Newt. If you try that, you'll be dead before you even touch that bread.
The boy froze, panting, the metal still clutched tight in his trembling hand.
— Look at yourself, Newt went on in a low voice. You don't have the strength to take it from him. Even if you manage to strike, you'll just end up another beaten kid, left to rot in an alley.
He paused, letting the words sink in.
The boy, still gasping, let a few words escape.
— I… I'm hungry…
Newt leaned in slightly, eyes locking onto his.
— If you really want to eat, there's another way. Not alone. Not like this.
The shard of metal lowered by a fraction. The boy blinked, confused.
— I can help you, Newt added. But not for free. You want that bread? Then work with me. Together, we survive.
A heavy silence fell. The only sound was the footsteps of the man with the bread fading into the distance.
The boy's wild gaze flickered with something else: raw instinct to survive.
His arm trembled, the shard of metal screeched faintly against his dirty fingers. He swayed between the hunger pushing him to leap, and the lucid fear awakened by Newt's words.
His dry lips parted once more.
— … Together?
The voice was broken, hoarse, barely a whisper.
Newt nodded slowly.
— Yes. Alone, you die. With me, you eat.
The boy swallowed hard, his eyes darting from Newt to the back of the man disappearing with his bread, then back again. A long second passed before his fingers finally released the rusted shard. It dropped into the dust with a dull clink.
He staggered, as if the decision had drained the last of his strength.
Newt extended his hand, palm open.
— Come.
The boy hesitated, then placed his trembling hand into his. It was cold, skeletal. But Newt squeezed it gently, without force.
A first ally. Not the strongest. Not the smartest.
But the most desperate.
Exactly what he had been searching for.