The twelve coins burn in my pocket like embers.
Not because of their value—which is pathetic—
but because of what they mean.
Another day sold.
Another few hours ripped from my body.
They jingle softly, mocking me, reminding me that no matter how much I sweat, they'll never be more than a broken promise.
I'm still standing in front of the shop.
The old man's inside, hunched over the counter like a crow perched on carrion.
When he notices me, his eyes snap up, his face souring instantly, like my shadow just stained the floor.
I ignore him.
Ugly old bastard.
That's when I see it.
In the back of the shop, sitting still, covered in dust, forgotten for months:
the last Halo.
A small white device, silver lines running along its surface.
Too cold. Too perfect for a place like this.
Not some shining relic like the ones plastered across propaganda posters.
No.
My fingers squeeze the coins in my pocket, feeling the cold metal.
Twelve Hokens.
Twelve Hokens that'll only buy me more rice and watery soup.
While that thing—sitting right there—could buy me… everything.
Takemura notices where I'm staring.
He lets out a short, venom‑laced chuckle.
"As if you could afford that, Kegaremono." His voice is dry, every word a blade.
"Not even selling your whole soul would buy you a Halo."
"My soul's already pawned, old man," I mutter, lips curling into a smirk, though rage bubbles inside.
He slams the door shut. The snap echoes.
I stand there, glaring at the worn wood like I could burn a hole through it.
I take a breath.
Think of Amir and his daughter.
Of Wei and his endless stories.
Of Joon, coughing like every cigarette might be his last.
Think of Alaric's smiling face on the poster, pretending he saved the world.
And then I think of myself.
A Kegaremono with twelve coins in his pocket and a body running out of time.
"What if I just took it?"
The thought throbs in my skull.
Steal a Halo.
Steal the one thing that could change everything.
Steal the key to the door they've always kept locked in my face.
But another thought cuts in.
Hypocrisy.
If I do it—if I activate that cursed Halo—I'll be no different than them.
Just another Impure trading soot for gold.
Another one looking down at the friends I left behind, pretending I never breathed coal dust.
I'd be betraying Joon. Amir. Wei.
I'd be betraying myself.
I close my eyes.
The image of the furnace rushes back.
Heat melting my body.
Supervisors barking, "Faster, Impures!"
Sweat burning in my eyes.
The shovel slipping in my hand.
Joon's cough. Amir's weary voice. Wei's heavy silence.
That's my tomorrow.
That's every tomorrow.
Until my body finally breaks.
I open my eyes.
The Halo's still there.
White. Cold. Waiting.
Maybe nobody wants it because it's old.
Because it's been passed around and never used.
Maybe it's defective.
Or maybe—it's here for a reason.
"Hero."
The word echoes in my mind.
My stomach twists.
Hero means traitor.
People who forgot the stench of rust and sweat.
People who traded shame for medals.
But… what if it didn't have to be that way?
What if I was different?
What if I stole it not to forget—
but to remember?
To shove it in their faces that even a Kegaremono can carry the light they swear belongs only to them?
I step back, staring at my reflection in the dirty glass.
Tired eyes.
Sweat‑plastered hair.
A shirt stained with soot.
I see a broken man. But still alive.
And I see the question that won't leave me alone:
How long am I just going to survive?
The coins jingle again in my pocket, mocking me.
And right behind that door is the only chance I've ever had.
I don't know if it's right.
I don't know if it's fair.
But I know this—
if I do nothing, I'll die like all the others:
nameless, voiceless, nothing.
So I smile to myself.
And think:
Maybe it's time to stop just surviving.
The street's almost empty when I turn back.
Takemura's already pulling the metal shutter halfway down.
His routine never changes. After that, he disappears—God knows where.
That old bastard never trusted anyone, always bragging about his "foolproof alarm."
Once, I swear I heard him bragging about it to a Hakudama buying wine.
They both laughed, like we Kegaremono were too stupid to doubt it.
Guess what?
Never saw a light flash. Never heard a siren.
Never felt anything but his arrogance.
I'd bet it's just another lie he collects.
I stand there, rooted in front of the window, heart racing, eyes locked on that damned Halo.
It almost glows, even under all that dust.
I don't know if it's real light—or just my mind shoving me forward.
Do it. Take it.
The voice creeps into my head.
Maybe it's hunger.
Maybe it's desperation.
Do it. Before it's too late.
I glance around.
No one.
Only the echo of gears grinding deep in the city's belly, the hiss of steam leaking from nearby boilers.
Ukishiro never sleeps, but down here, the slums play dead after dark.
Takemura finally kills the lights.
The shutter screeches all the way down.
And I'm left staring at my dirty reflection in the glass.
The back door slams shut like a hatch sealing.
"Fuck it," I whisper.
I pull back my elbow—and smash the glass.
The crack explodes louder than I expected.
A dry shatter, then the scatter of shards across the ground.
My heart rockets.
I wait—
for sirens, for shouts, for anything to prove his damn "foolproof alarm" was real.
Nothing.
Only the thunder of my own breathing.
"You bastard… there was never an alarm," I mutter, a nervous laugh escaping.
I squeeze through the opening.
Glass tears my sleeve; pain burns my arm, but I don't stop.
The shop reeks of mildew and metal.
The counter still stinks of the old man's rancid hands.
I vault over it, stumble on a shard, almost fall.
My breathing's a storm.
And there it is.
The Halo.
Sitting there like it's been waiting for me all along.
I reach out.
My fingers tremble.
For a second, I wonder if it'll reject me.
If it'll explode.
Burn me alive.
But when I touch it—
Nothing.
Just silence.
Heavy silence.
I clutch it, shove it under my shirt, pressing it against my chest.
And run.
The crunch of glass under my boots chases me into the street.
The road stretches longer than it ever has.
Every shadow feels like an eye.
Every hiss of the boilers a voice, spitting: Thief.
My heart pounds so loud it's a beacon.
I turn the corner, breath ragged, sweat cold on my neck.
My eyes dart for any sign of movement.
A Hakudama.
A Gijun.
Even a curious Kegaremono could ruin me.
But no one's there.
Ukishiro is silent.
I almost laugh.
"I did it…" I whisper, gasping.
My legs keep running on their own.
Every step, the anxiety claws deeper.
If Takemura notices quick, I'm done.
If not till morning, maybe I'll be gone.
But… where the hell am I going?
Didn't think that far.
I lean against a cold metal wall, trying to steady my breathing.
The Halo presses against my chest, icy—yet pulsing.
A strange warmth crawls over my skin, though it's not even activated.
Like it's alive.
I shut my eyes.
Picture Joon, hacking up smoke.
Amir's tired voice, talking about a future for his daughter.
Wei, smirking, saying I knew you'd end up like this.
And maybe they're all right.
But they're not here.
It's just me—and this cursed thing.
I take a deep breath.
Does this make me a hypocrite?
Probably.
But a living hypocrite beats a dead honest man.
I start running again.
Each corner darker.
Each step louder.
The slums are empty, filled only with the distant hum of boilers and the bitter‑sweet smoke of temple incense.
I think of the Seraphim.
Of golden posters.
Of Alaric's false smile.
And I clutch the Halo tighter against my chest.
"Let's see if this damn thing works…" I mutter.