The Metro market was alive with noise — the clatter of pots, the sharp bark of hagglers, the hiss of boiling kettles. Lamps swung above crooked stalls, casting uneven light over piles of scavenged gear, loose bullets, and the occasional glitter of artifacts under glass.
Mikhail kept his pouch tight to his chest as he pushed through the crowd. He could feel eyes on him — stalkers, traders, even children. Word traveled fast: the boy who came back with an artifact.
He found the trader by the smell before the sight — old tobacco and machine oil. The man's stall was cluttered with disassembled rifles, filters, and a glass case where two artifacts glowed faintly like captured stars.
The trader squinted at him. "You the pup that came crawling back from the Zone?"
Mikhail set the lead-lined pouch on the counter without a word. His hands trembled slightly as he opened it. The molten-glass orb pulsed faintly, casting a warm glow on the trader's scarred fingers.
The man leaned close, eyes narrowing. "Well, look at that. Ember Seed. Not bad for a first pull." He turned it over with surprising gentleness. "Keeps you warm, they say. Doesn't scorch, doesn't poison. Rare enough, but not legendary."
Mikhail's heart sank at the casual tone. He had nearly died for it.
"How much?" His voice was steadier than he felt.
The trader smirked, pulling a tin box from under the counter. He rattled it — bullets. Military grade, polished and sharp. Premium. The glow of real wealth. He poured out a handful, maybe twenty rounds.
Mikhail frowned. "That's all?"
The trader's smile widened, showing yellowed teeth. "Listen, pup. First lesson — the Zone doesn't pay in gold. You got yourself a common rare. Useful, sure, but nothing folk will bleed for. Twenty Premiums is fair. Take it, or go peddle it to the rats."
Mikhail hesitated, fingers brushing his journal inside his jacket. He thought of his father's words. Of his mother's note. Of the blood still drying on his boots.
He wanted to argue. To demand more. But the trader's eyes were cold, and the murmurs of onlookers reminded him just how many would gladly slit his throat for what lay on the counter.
Slowly, he nodded. "Deal."
The trader swept the artifact into his case with a satisfied grunt. The Premiums clinked into Mikhail's palm — heavier than he expected, warmer too. Twenty lives, if used wisely. Twenty chances to keep breathing.
He slipped them into his pouch and turned away. The market noise swallowed him again, but this time, he felt different. Not richer. Not safer. Just… marked.
A boy who had gone into the Zone, and come back with fire.
And everyone knew it.