In the filth-stained alleys of District 17, dreams died quietly — choked by smog, hunger, and fear.
Kaien sat hunched beside a barrel fire, hands outstretched to catch what little warmth the flames offered. Cindra, barefoot and bruised, returned from the black market with a small loaf of stale bread.
Her grin was crooked but triumphant.
"Scammed a drunk for it," she said. "He thought I was selling spice."
They laughed. It was a brittle sound — like glass trying to echo.
Life in the ruined sector was cruel. No clean water. No electricity. No mercy.
But Kaien and Cindra had each other. And that, somehow, made it bearable.
At night, they would lie on crates inside a broken warehouse with holes in the roof.
Cindra often talked about the world beyond the walls, where real cities stood and people wore shoes not stolen off corpses.
Kaien remained quiet.
He didn't believe in dreams.
Not after what he had seen.
But deep inside, he couldn't forget the story of a man — a rebel who once stood against the regime. The man who had died for something greater.
That story, etched in Kaien's memory, was the only fire that still burned.
One evening, as storm clouds gathered and distant sirens wailed, Kaien caught something strange in Cindra's eyes: a spark of defiance.
"We're not rats," she said. "We just haven't found the door out yet."
Kaien didn't answer.
But that night, he dreamed of a void—weightless, crushing, infinite.
Something inside him stirred — silent, heavy, and waiting.