The city of Raventon never slept, but some places were long forgotten — like Block 9, where streetlights flickered as if even electricity pitied the people below.
Anush woke to the sound of dripping water and someone cursing about it. Rain had punched through the sheet-metal roof again. He rolled off his thin mattress, blinking at the dark stain spreading across the wall.
"Perfect," he muttered. "Even the house is crying today."
His mother was already gone, off to the garment factory before dawn. She always left a note on the cracked mirror: Work hard, stay good. He had stopped reading it months ago, but never tore it down.
The slums smelled like boiled rice and diesel. Anush stepped outside, pulling his hoodie tight against the morning chill. His "workshop" — a wooden crate and a rusted table — sat just beside the main road. He fixed old phones, rewired chargers, soldered things that probably shouldn't have been soldered, and somehow made them work.He wasn't a genius. He was just desperate — and desperation made people clever.
By noon, he'd already argued with three customers, overcharged one tourist, and been nearly run over by a delivery van.
When the driver shouted, "Watch where you're standing, kid!" Anush shouted back, "Watch where you're driving, old man!"
The driver laughed and tossed him a packet of chips. "Keep the attitude, boy. It'll feed you someday."
Anush didn't laugh. "It's not attitude," he muttered. "It's survival."
He worked through the afternoon, sweat mixing with dust on his neck. Every phone he fixed earned him a few hundred rupees. By sunset, he had just enough to eat and buy spare parts for tomorrow.
That was the rhythm of his life — build, break, repeat.
Then came the fire.
It started with shouting down the alley — the kind that made people close their doors fast. The Red Horns, a local gang, were doing their weekly "collection." They came with baseball bats and smiles that didn't reach their eyes. Anush had been skipping their payments.The leader, a bulky man named Rico, stopped at Anush's table.
"You owe three weeks, boy."
"I don't owe anyone anything," Anush said, steadying his voice.
Rico smirked. "Cute. Maybe your little tools can fix that attitude."
He kicked over the table, scattering phones, wires, and dreams onto the dirt. Anush lunged, but one of the gang shoved him back. Someone struck a match. Flames devoured the wood and plastic.
Anush's world — his only means to survive — turned to smoke.
When the gang left laughing, tossing a few burnt wires at him, the silence around Block 9 screamed louder than any words.
He spent the night sitting beside the ashes. By dawn, his hands were black with soot, but his eyes were clear.
If the city wanted to crush him, it would have to try harder.
He grabbed a half-burned screwdriver and whispered,
"Fine. I'll build something you can't burn."
The words weren't loud, but they were a promise.
A rat scurried across the alley dragging a chip packet. Anush watched it struggle, fall, then keep pulling.
He smirked. "Guess we're both building empires, huh?"The sun rose behind the skyline — tall towers gleaming in gold — and for the first time, Anush didn't just stare at them.
He measured them.