The stew was still warm when Lucien set the spoon aside. It hadn't been remarkable—watery broth with thin slices of onion and one withered potato bobbing at the bottom—but it carried the simple weight of sustenance. He sat back, eyes wandering the shadowed beams of his ceiling as if the lines of the wood might carve out an answer to his unspoken problem.
The pouch of coins lay on the table, strings loosened, its contents mocking him. Rent had claimed a significant portion. The bread, vegetables, and pork he had bought for the week were already dwindling. He had done the arithmetic in his head more than once: two days, perhaps three if I ration.
Money slipped through fingers faster than air. He knew that in Korea as Han Jae-min, and he knew it here in Gravemont. Hunger did not discriminate between worlds.
Lucien tightened the pouch, tied it shut, and tucked it beneath the pillow. He wasn't afraid of thieves; he simply disliked seeing it there, reminding him of fragility.
I'll need work tomorrow.
That thought was final, cold, pragmatic. No panic, no fear. Simply the recognition of necessity.
---
Morning broke with the cry of gulls circling above the Riverside Quarters. A thin fog clung to the cobblestones, heavy with the scent of brine and smoke from the factories that lined the edge of the district. Lucien stepped into the street, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, his boots carrying him through the waking chaos of Gravemont's poorest ring.
Laborers shouted as they hauled crates toward the docks, wagons rattled under the weight of fish, coal, and imported fabrics. Women leaned from upper windows to hang laundry, while children darted through alleys with bare feet blackened by dirt. Riverside was a place where survival was written on every face.
Lucien moved like a ghost among them, his expression carved from stone. He scanned notice boards nailed to tavern doors and street corners, eyes moving quickly over the desperate postings:
"Seeking apprentices for tailoring—room and board included."
"Errand boy needed at the baker's shop."
"Strong backs for dock work. No pay if work not completed."
Most were useless. Then, on the side of a soot-stained wall, one caught his eye:
"Factory Hands Wanted. Wages Paid Daily. No Questions Asked."
The words were crude, chalked in hurried script. But they were exactly what he needed.
---
The factory stood like a blackened beast at Riverside's edge. Its chimneys coughed smoke into the morning air, staining the gray sky even darker. The brick walls were mottled with soot, its windows cracked and fogged from the constant thrum of machines inside.
Men and women filed through its iron doors with dull, mechanical movements, their faces worn thin by exhaustion. The foreman barked orders from the threshold, a thick-necked man with a scar splitting his lip. His voice rose above the noise, a whip driving bodies into the maw of industry.
Lucien approached.
"You hiring?" His tone was flat, almost indifferent.
The foreman gave him a glance. His eyes lingered—on the sharpness of Lucien's features, the calm steadiness in the way he stood. Something about him was unsettling, but coin was coin, and hands were hands. The man spat to the side.
"You've got two arms? Inside. Don't make me regret it."
---
The inside was a furnace. Machines roared with relentless hunger, gears grinding, wheels spinning, steam hissing from every corner. The air was thick with the stench of oil and sweat. Children scurried between stations, carrying tools to men whose hands were blackened with soot.
Lucien was handed to a press line. His job was simple: pull a lever, lift, repeat. Over and over. The machine slammed down on sheets of metal with a sound like thunder, vibrating through his bones.
Time bled away. Hours became nothing but the cycle of movement. Yet Lucien endured, unflinching, his face expressionless as though the monotony of labor had no power over him. He worked with the same dispassion he carried everywhere.
During the midday break, workers slumped against walls, wolfing down bread or smoking pipes to steady themselves. A few glanced at him. One man, younger and wide-eyed, edged closer as though to speak. But when Lucien turned his gaze upon him—cold, flat, unyielding—the words withered in his throat. He backed away, muttering something under his breath.
Lucien noticed, but it was nothing new. It had been the same in Korea. People mistook silence for arrogance, distance for hostility. Perhaps they weren't wrong. He had long since decided it was easier that way.
---
By the time the shift ended, the sun was already beginning to dip. The foreman barked dismissal, and the workers shuffled out in clusters, their bodies bent and weary. Lucien walked among them, his stride steady despite the soreness in his arms.
The streets of Riverside were changing as evening settled in. Vendors closed their stalls, shutters clattered shut, and the alleys darkened with shadows that moved on their own. Whispers followed him, the kind of whispers that always came before violence.
He kept walking.
---
The blow came without warning. A body slammed into him from the side, knocking him to the cobblestones. His shoulder burned with the impact, but before he could rise, a boot crushed the back of his skull, grinding his face into the dirt. His vision blurred, blood trickled down his cheek.
"Search him," a voice growled.
Hands rifled through his coat, patting his pockets. The coins he had earned slipped away.
"Nothing but scraps," someone spat.
The boot lifted, then slammed into his ribs. Pain flared through his side. Lucien's body jerked, but he did not cry out. His silence unsettled them.
"What, cat got your tongue?" The man crouched, grabbed him by the hair, yanked his head up. Lucien's eyes met his.
Cold. Empty. Bottomless.
The thug faltered, unease flickering across his face. Yet pride forced him to sneer. He struck again, a fist burying into Lucien's stomach.
"You're lucky," he hissed. Then he shoved him down, and the gang scattered into the night, their laughter echoing in the alley.
---
Lucien lay there for a long moment, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. His body ached, blood dripped steadily from a cut on his temple, his ribs screamed with every movement.
Yet his face was as calm as ever.
Slowly, methodically, he rolled onto his side, then onto his hands and knees. He wheezed, spat blood onto the stones, and crawled toward the dim outline of his building.
Every step was pain. Every inhale was fire. But he kept moving.
When he reached his room, he shut the door, collapsed against it, and let the silence envelop him. The coins were gone, but he was still here.
And that was enough.