The world was a machine that ran on the bones of the poor, and Drake Glisson was just another cog. His day was a slow, grinding process of being worn down for a pittance. The mornings were spent at the merchant docks, a chaotic symphony of shouting foremen and screaming sky-gulls. He hauled crates until his muscles screamed, the rough wood digging splinters into his palms, the stench of salt and fish a permanent resident in his nostrils. He wasn't strong or fast, just durable. He could endure the burn in his shoulders and the casual contempt of the men who paid him a handful of coins that were never enough.
Therefore, his afternoons were spent hunched over a sink in a slum tavern called the Greasetrap. He washed dishes in lukewarm, greasy water, scrubbing pots caked with the leavings of meals he couldn't afford. The work was mindless, the air thick with the smell of cheap ale and regret. He was invisible, a ghost who cleaned up the messes of men with slightly more coin than him. Each pot scrubbed, each crate hauled, was a small piece of himself traded for the thin, bitter medicine that kept his sister alive.
Home was a single room that smelled of damp and dust, but it was the only place the world couldn't touch him. The moment he pushed open the warped wooden door, the grime of his day seemed to recede.
"You smell like fish again," a small voice declared from a nest of blankets on a mattress in the corner.
Daisy was sitting up, her dark hair a tangled mess, her face pale but her eyes shining with a familiar mischief. She was the anchor that kept him from drifting away, the fragile flame he cupped his hands around to protect from the wind.
He set a small paper-wrapped package on the crate that served as their table. "And you look like a grumpy little goblin who hasn't had her potion." He pulled out the vial of medicine, and her face immediately scrunched into a pout.
"It's bitter," she complained.
"Life is bitter," he grunted, sitting on the edge of her bed. "Drink up."
She downed it with a dramatic shudder, her whole body shaking as if she'd just swallowed poison. She chased it with water before a rattling cough seized her small frame. He laid a hand on her back, feeling the bird-like fragility of her bones. When the fit passed, she flopped back onto the pillows, exhausted.
"When I'm better," she mumbled into her blanket, "we're getting fried chicken. The crispy kind. And you can't have any."
"Deal," he said softly, the lie a familiar weight in his gut. The medicine didn't make her better; it just kept her from getting worse. True recovery had a price tag he couldn't even imagine.
The sounds of their neighbors arguing bled through the thin walls, a nightly ritual in the Slums.
"Old Man Hemlock's boy… the twins from the third floor… all went for their Awakening today," a woman's voice cracked.
"And?" a man slurred.
"Just the one twin came back. Got a worthless 'Tanner' class. Said his brother… the light just went out of his eyes. The System rejected him. He's a husk now. And Hemlock's boy… he never even came out of the chamber." The voice broke into a sob. "It's a choice they say, to fight in the dungeons. But what choice is it when the Awakening itself can break you?"
The voices faded, but a chill settled in the room. The Awakening. The government's mandatory eighteenth birthday ritual. It was a lottery. The lucky few got powerful Combat Classes, a ticket to a dangerous but potentially rich life. Most got mundane Life Classes, dooming them to a life not much better than the one they already had. And the unlucky… the unlucky were broken by the process itself, their minds shattered, or their bodies simply giving out. Drake's birthday was a week away.
Daisy pushed herself up, her eyes wide with a fear that was far too old for her face. "Drake," she whispered, her voice trembling. "If they take you… can I come too? I don't wanna be alone."
The question was a physical blow. He looked at her, at this small, terrified person who was his entire world, and he did the only thing he could. He lied. "It's not for kids. Besides, it's probably boring. I'll be back before you know it. Promise."
She believed him, because what other choice did she have?
The next evening, his boss at the Greasetrap, a fat, sour-faced man named Corbin, blocked his exit. He tossed a few coins onto a grease-stained counter. It was less than half of what they'd agreed upon.
"What's this?" Drake asked, his voice flat.
"That's what you're worth today, slum rat," Corbin sneered. "Take it or leave it."
A cold stillness settled over Drake. That money was for Daisy's next vial. "I did the work. You pay me."
For a moment, Corbin looked surprised that the ghost had spoken back. Then his face twisted in a cruel grin. He shoved Drake hard. "You got a problem?"
Drake stumbled back but didn't fall. He just stared, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten, replaced by a cold, quiet refusal to be broken. That refusal was all it took. Corbin swung, his meaty fist catching Drake on the side of the head.
Pain exploded behind his eyes, white and blinding. The world tilted, the sounds of the tavern dissolving into a high-pitched ring. He staggered against the wall, his head throbbing, his vision swimming in a dizzying blur. The blow had split Corbin's knuckles on his cheekbone. A single, fat drop of blood welled up on the man's hand, then another. The blood dripped onto the grimy floorboards, a dark, glistening ruby in the tavern's dim light.
And then, something snapped.
Through the ringing in his ears and the dizzying pain, Drake's entire world narrowed to that single, spreading pool of blood. The pain in his head vanished, replaced by an electric hum. His heart, which had been pounding with adrenaline, suddenly settled into a slow, powerful, steady beat. His ragged breathing smoothed out. A strange, unnatural thrill, cold and sharp, shot through his veins. It was a feeling of profound focus, of absolute clarity. It felt wrong. It felt heretical. But beneath the wrongness, it felt good. It felt alive.
Corbin was still sneering, still talking, but Drake didn't hear the words. He was just staring at the blood, a deep, primal hunger awakening inside him.
He shoved himself off the wall, grabbing the coins from the counter. He turned and walked out without another word, leaving Corbin bewildered. He stumbled through the darkening alleys, his head still aching, but the echo of that strange, thrilling hunger was a new and terrifying pulse inside him. He told himself it was just the adrenaline, a trick of the pain. But he knew it wasn't. It was something else.
That night, long after he'd given Daisy her medicine, he sat by her bedside, watching the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of her chest. She mumbled in her sleep, a small smile on her face.
"When I get better…" she whispered to a dream, "…pancakes and the sea, okay? Don't forget."
He reached out and gently brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. "Okay, Daisy," he promised softly. "I won't forget."
As he stood to leave, his fingers brushed against his own cheek. They came away sticky. He had wiped some of Corbin's blood on himself without realizing it. He looked at the smear on his fingertips, a dark stain under the pale moonlight filtering through their grimy window. The hunger was gone, but the memory of the feeling remained.
He stood there for a long time, in the silence of the room, with only one question echoing in the deepest, darkest part of his mind.
"…Why did that feel good?"