Moving through the dense crowd, Brian scanned the stalls until he stopped at a clothing vendor's counter.
He eyed the racks of shirts, pants, and shoes, then addressed a dark-skinned woman behind the counter:
"I need some clothes for a four- or five-year-old child."
"Clothes for a four- or five-year-old?"
The woman looked up at the young man with mild surprise—but business was business. Without further comment, she crouched down and rummaged through the storage beneath her counter. She pulled out a medium-sized bag and set it on the counter.
"Everything you need's in here. One ration card."
Brian unzipped the bag, glanced inside—clothes, pants, shoes, all neatly packed—and nodded. He reached into his pocket, handed her a ration card, then picked up the bag and continued deeper into the market.
Unbeknownst to him, the moment he'd pulled that ration card from his pocket, a small shadow had attached itself to his back.
A short distance further, remembering his promise to Sarah from the day before, Brian approached a food stall—one clearly marked as Norsen's territory, stocked with relatively high-quality goods.
Hidden among the throng, in a narrow gap between bodies, a thin, grimy boy of seven or eight watched intently. Dressed in tattered rags, his eyes locked onto the man as he prepared to pay. The boy leaned forward slightly, muscles coiled like a spring, waiting for the perfect moment.
The instant Brian reached into his pocket for another ration card, the boy's eyes lit up. Now! Without hesitation, he darted forward like a flash.
Just as Brian turned around after completing his purchase, the boy collided with him full-force—and both tumbled to the ground.
But in that split second before hitting the dirt, the boy's nimble fingers had already slipped the ration card from Brian's pocket and into his own.
Feeling the familiar thickness of the card in his hand, the boy's heart leapt with joy. Great haul today! he thought. Mom and little sister won't go hungry for days.
"Sorry! Sorry!"
Before Brian could react, the boy scrambled up, bowing repeatedly in exaggerated panic. Then, without looking back, he dove into the crowd—and vanished in an instant.
Alone, Brian watched the boy disappear. A faint, knowing smile played on his lips.
Within the quarantine zone lived countless illegal residents who'd smuggled themselves in from the outside. Some were rebels, hiding in plain sight, working toward their so-called "noble cause." Others were ordinary survivors—also undocumented—but they'd split into two distinct groups.
One group, terrified of being caught and expelled by quarantine soldiers, chose to live in the black market's slums: filthy, damp, windowless shacks where they labored for scraps. Their children, lacking legal status, couldn't attend school and instead spent their days stealing and scavenging to help feed their families.
The other group refused such degrading existence. They lived hidden within the quarantine sectors proper—constantly on the run, always hungry, always fearing capture—but they believed they were still living like human beings.
Neither group wanted to remain illegal. But while the quarantine zone did accept new survivors, it wasn't open to just anyone. Without useful skills, newcomers were seen as dead weight—useless laborers in a system already drowning in them.
Children, however, were always welcome. After all, they represented the future—the next generation of workers, soldiers, and citizens.
Some parents, desperate for their children's survival, made the agonizing choice to send them into the system alone. Others couldn't bear separation and smuggled their entire families in illegally.
Eller came from one such family.
In the black market's infamous refugee slum…
Outside a crumbling shack, Eller pressed himself against the wall, scanning the area warily before slipping his hand into his pocket. He pulled out the stolen ration card.
"…5, 6, 7…"
As he counted, his hands began to tremble uncontrollably. His face flushed with excitement.
"We're rich! We're actually rich!"
"With just a few ration cards? What's got you so worked up?"
The sudden voice struck like lightning. Eller's heart lurched—his grip failed, and the cards scattered to the ground with a clatter.
"Aaah—!"
He whirled around, pupils shrinking in terror. Standing right before him was the very man he'd just robbed.
Without thinking, Eller stumbled backward, ready to bolt—
—but strong hands clamped down on his shoulders, pinning him in place.
"Why run? I'm not going to hurt you," the man said calmly.
Eller didn't believe a word. Just days ago, he'd watched a childhood friend beaten to death for stealing a ration card. The body had been dumped beyond the walls. That memory haunted him, filling every theft with dread. But what choice did he have? His mother was sick. His sister was starving. Stealing was the only way.
Convinced he was about to die, Eller thrashed wildly, trying to break free.
Brian sighed, shook his head, and pressed the boy firmly against the wall, locking eyes with him.
"Stop struggling. I can't promise I won't do something if you keep this up. And I'm guessing… you've got family nearby?"
At those words, Eller froze. His mother and sister were just inside the next shack. He stopped moving—but his legs still shook violently.
Creak…
"Big brother… what's wrong?"
Whether from their commotion or Eller's earlier cry, the rusted door of the shack opened slightly. A tiny girl peeked out, her small hands gripping the frame tightly. Fear flickered in her eyes as she saw the stranger holding her brother—but she summoned her courage and whispered, "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. Just talking with your brother," Brian said easily, slinging an arm around Eller's shoulders as if they were old friends.
Eller blinked, stunned by the man's calm demeanor. Realizing this stranger might not mean harm, he relaxed slightly and called out gently, "I'm okay. Go back inside."
The girl hesitated, glancing between them, but seeing no immediate danger, she slowly retreated into the shack.
"I'm really sorry for stealing from you…"
The moment his sister was gone, Eller dropped to his knees, bowing deeply. "Please… punish me if you must. Just don't hurt them."
"Get up."
Brian grabbed him by the arms and hauled him to his feet.
"Look, I'm no saint—but I'm not about to hurt a kid like you."
He tilted his head toward the shack, ears twitching. From inside came a faint, persistent cough.
"Sounds like someone's sick in there—your mom?"
Eller's expression crumpled. If this man wanted to harm them, resistance was pointless. So he spoke honestly:
"That's my mother. She's been coughing nonstop for a month. I wanted to take her to a doctor… but we don't have legal IDs. Hospitals won't see us… and black market doctors charge more than we'll ever have…"
Watching the boy's despair deepen, Brian's lips curved into a faint smile.
"You know what?" he said. "I've got a job for you. Complete it—bring me what I need—and I'll get a real doctor to treat your mother. Deal?"