Night had fallen over the Archian Archipelago. The festivals had ended hours ago, leaving behind the faint echo of laughter swallowed by the sea. Low clouds crept in from the horizon, heavy and gray, until the first drops of rain began to fall.
People hurried home, cloaks drawn tight against the wind. Merchants closed their stalls with weary hands, and those still running errands pressed along the sides of buildings to avoid the downpour. The wide streets emptied, leaving only the sound of rain tapping against cobblestone.
In the narrow alleys between the buildings, the forgotten took shelter. Wrapped in rags, they crouched beneath broken awnings or rusted pipes, chasing warmth that no longer existed. The air smelled of wet stone and decay.
And in one such alley, a fat rat feasted.
It sat beside an overturned crate, gnawing loudly on a half-rotten apple. The sound was wet, greedy, and careless, as if filth was its birthright. When the fruit was gone, the rat turned and spotted something red poking from a mound of trash, a soft, bruised tomato.
Sniffing once, it waddled closer. The stench didn't bother it. Hunger ruled stronger than disgust. It bit down. The skin didn't break. It bit again, harder this time. Still nothing. On the third bite, its teeth sank deep, and the trash screamed.
A low, guttural cry tore through the rain. The smaller rats scattered, their claws scratching against the slick stone. But the fat one didn't flee. It chewed stubbornly, confused.
Then came movement.
A hand twitched from within the pile, slow and trembling. It didn't strike. It barely brushed the rat's side, too weak to push it away.
A broken sound followed, rasping and raw.
"G… g-get… off…"
Each word came out in fragments, each syllable sounding like it hurt to form. The voice shook as if even speaking was too much to bear.
The mound shifted. Trash slid away as something began to rise. The motion was slow, agonizing, deliberate. Every muscle seemed to protest. Every breath came out like a struggle against the body itself.
The rat's instincts screamed, but it stayed frozen, chewing once more before releasing its grip. The creature didn't even notice.
The figure continued to move, unaware or uncaring that the rat had let go. Then, suddenly, with a jerking motion, it swung its head to the side.
A sickening crack followed. The figure had slammed against the metal wall of the trash bin, head first. For a moment, the world went silent save for the hiss of rain.
The figure slumped against the container, head tilted back, chest rising in slow, uneven breaths. The face twisted with pain, but no scream came, only a shuddering gasp as trembling hands clutched its skull.
The fat rat, now trembling and soaked, hesitated for only a second before turning away. Survival had taught it one truth. Whatever crawled out of the trash that night was something best left alone.