The clothes were plain.
Second-hand grey pants, a cream long-sleeve shirt, and a pair of worn brown shoes with cracked soles and faint traces of someone else's steps.
The pants were too big, hanging loose around his waist and pooling at the ankles.
The shirt slipped past his hands each time he moved, sleeves drooping like they wanted to swallow his arms.
Myers watched in silence for a moment, then sighed.
He reached forward, hand hovering for a heartbeat over Seventeen's arm, like something inside him was warning him not to.
Then a muffled exhale slipped from inside the bucket, his voice low and distorted as he muttered something unheard. He rolled the cuffs himself, the cloth brushing his glove as he folded the sleeves to the boy's wrists.
"There," he said quietly, stepping back a little too fast.
He coughed once, looking away.
"Funds are running short since those Cores I gave Boarn. Couldn't afford much better right now."
Seventeen only nodded. He tightened the drawstring until the pants stayed up. The shoes pressed against his toes, too small, but they didn't hurt. That was enough.
The air smelled faintly of cooked meat.
Myers had set a small wooden table near the center of the room. Two bowls. Two cups. Steam drifted lazily upward, soft and curling in the stale air.
Inside the bowls sat rice and thick cuts of seared meat, edges darkened from the pan. Simple food. Plain, real.
The scent filled the room, warm, heavy, almost sweet beneath the smoke.
His stomach turned before he understood why.
The smell hit something deep, something old. A memory of hunger that never really went away.
Myers sat down across from him, the chair creaking beneath his weight. He folded his hands once, briefly, before reaching for his own bowl.
"Eat," he said simply.
Seventeen stared at the food for a long time.
Then he picked up the spoon.
He ate slow at first.
A small bite. Then another.
The rice was soft but a little sticky, clumping together where the steam had cooled. The meat was seared just enough to hold flavor, smoky, faintly sweet, the edges crisp and dark.
It wasn't special.
It wasn't spiced or prepared for a feast.
It was just food.
Food meant to be eaten.
Food that didn't demand anything from him.
He chewed, swallowed, took another bite. The warmth spread down his throat, filling his chest with something that hurt more than any wound.
The warmth felt wrong at first, like it was filling someone else's body. His mind lagged behind the act of eating, still half lost in the fog of numbness.
His fingers trembled as he scooped another spoonful.
Grains slid from the edge, scattering across the table, but he didn't stop.
His hands shook harder. The spoon clinked against the bowl.
He steadied it with his other hand and kept eating.
Every bite felt stolen.
Like the world had already decided he didn't deserve this, and he was taking it anyway.
The taste of oil and salt coated his tongue. The warmth from the meat lingered behind his teeth, thick and heavy.
It was too much.
Too real.
The spoon slipped once and struck the edge of the bowl. The sound cracked through the quiet like a spark.
He froze,
and the tears came.
Small at first. Barely there.
Then harder, running down his chin, catching on the corner of his mouth as he tried to swallow again.
He didn't sob. Didn't speak.
He just kept eating, every bite mixed with shuddering breaths. The taste of salt replaced the seasoning. His throat burned from trying to hold it in.
Across from him, Myers didn't move.
The metal bucket reflected a faint shimmer of the lamplight, the hollow ring of its shape cutting his outline into something distant, inhuman.
He didn't sigh. Didn't turn away.
Just sat there, posture still, one hand resting lightly against the table.
The way his shoulders shifted was the only sign that he had noticed.
He opened his mouth once, maybe to speak, but nothing came.
The faint scrape of his gloves against the wood replaced words he didn't know how to form.
You could feel him wanting to do something.
But not knowing what.
He stayed there, quiet, letting the boy cry in peace.
Seventeen took another spoonful, even as the tears blurred his sight.
His body shook as he swallowed, breath hitching with every bite.
He wasn't eating for strength.
He wasn't eating to survive the next fight.
He was eating because, for the first time since he had woken in that world, no one demanded anything of him.
When he finished, his hands stayed around the bowl.
His breathing steadied, but his eyes stayed glassy, unfocused, half lost somewhere inside himself.
The warmth in his stomach felt real, but it didn't reach the rest of him.
His chest still felt hollow, like the two couldn't exist at the same time.
Myers waited until the boy's breathing evened out again before speaking.
He didn't know what to say to tears, so he didn't try.
Work was easier. Work always was.
He shifted in the chair, elbows on his knees, hands clasped.
"Anyway," he said after a pause, his tone returning to that steady casualness. "Money's short right now. Those cores I gave Boarn cost more than I'd like to admit. So…"
He leaned back slightly, the bucket catching the lamp's faint glow. "I'll be taking on more work this week."
He hesitated for half a beat, as if testing the words before saying them.
"You're coming with me."
Seventeen looked up, faint confusion cutting through the dullness in his eyes.
"Why?"
"Because you're still my student," Myers said simply. "And if I have to be out working, you'll learn while I do it. You can't stay here rotting in a bed."
He stood, brushing off his coat. "It'll be on the surface. Nothing dangerous. You'll just watch, keep quiet, and pay attention. You might even learn something useful."
The word surface hit him wrong.
His chest tightened, not from fear, but from memory.
The stench of rot. The shouting. The filth pressed into his skin. The light that felt like punishment.
That was where he had woken up.
The surface was where the world had found him and thrown him into its jaws.
He didn't answer. Just nodded once.
Myers moved toward the door. "Get some rest tonight. We leave at dawn."
The metal door groaned shut behind him.
Seventeen sat for a while longer. The room still smelled faintly of food and smoke.
He rubbed the scar along his thumb once, tracing the uneven ridge with his fingertip before exhaling slowly.
Tomorrow.
The surface again.
Not because he wanted to.
Because he had to.
The lamp hissed softly in the corner, its small flame trembling with every breath of air.
He watched it flicker, thin and fragile, until it blurred.
For a moment, it felt like he was looking at himself.