The Stray:
I learned early that no one is only what they choose to be.
Men liked to think they were their own, that their decisions were just theirs.
But if you live with savages, you learn violence. Live with saints, you try to act like you've got virtue.
It isn't that simple, though. When you're surrounded by predators, you're more likely to end up prey. Maybe you turn into a predator like them. Maybe a scavenger, feeding off their scraps. You don't become something that has nothing to do with what's around you.
Surrounded by predators, I wanted to be a ghost. Ghosts didn't get touched. Ghosts were hidden, invisible, safe.
But ghosts don't steal.
And ghosts don't shiver until their teeth hurt.
I wasn't a ghost. I was more like a stray.
Hunger had been sitting in me for days. Not the sharp kind that folds you over—more a slow pressure from the inside, stealing strength a handful at a time. I'd eaten maybe five times this month. Six if I was lucky. Half stolen, the rest pulled from bins before the dogs could nose in.
Hunger made people reckless. Reckless got you seen. Being seen got you hurt.
The streets here emptied before the sun was gone. Doors chained. Gates shut. Even the air seemed to hold its breath. Moss spread across the pavement in pale patches that crumbled under my steps. The white made my shirt stand out—mustard yellow, torn. If I lay down, I'd look like a puddle of piss in snow. No hiding in that.
I kept moving. No place to go—just movement, so no one had time to decide what I was worth.
I missed it at first. By the third corner, a plastic sign clacked on its chain and the footsteps behind me stopped because I stopped. I walked; they walked. I crossed the street; and a shadow crossed too.
Though I'm sure they knew I did, I tried my best to pretend I didn't notice them behind me.
I walked up to a shop window, and stared inside like I wanted the shoes, but I watched past the glass—just a smear of shape in the reflection. Chewing. Slow.
I was being tailed.
I thought about trickin—no. There weren't many tricks I could even try. I cut down a block with lights, thinking lights made things safer. They didn't. Lights just made me brighter.
There were voices ahead—men gathered at the mouth of a side street. They went quiet as I came close, looking behind me, they subtlety found themselves further away.
Selfish cowards.
I peeled off and took a narrow cut instead. It was dead-ended by a service door with a broken chain.
Their steps sped up. In that choke of alley, there was no turning back and no slipping past. I walked all the way down, hoping for some gap to squeeze through.
At the end of the street was a warehouse door, hung open like it had been waiting for me.
Relief flared—fast and stupid—and I stepped inside.
It felt like walking off the plank. Cold air. Still. A hint of oil and old wood. Empty space. From where I stood, I couldn't see any other doors.
Their boots entered after me.
And I had no other choice now but to face them.
The man in front had shoulders too wide for the doorway. A scar cut across his mouth, twisting every half-smile into something that looked painful. He chewed loud enough for me to hear.
More shapes slid in behind him. Two. Three. Four. I counted without thinking—how far they spread, how long their steps were, where I could maybe run. Nowhere.
Nothing good came from grown men surrounding you after dark.
Scar-mouth cracked his knuckles. "Took a while to find you. People acted like they didn't see you."
His grin thinned. "Being a tough guy has its consequences, right?"
Fear crept under my skin and shook my legs before I could move them. Running wouldn't help. If they'd hunted me for days, they'd run me down.
My fingers closed on the rusted blade in my pocket. It was short. But it was what I had.
They closed in. Scar-mouth set a hand on my shoulder—heavy and cold—and my knees locked.
A fist crushed my ribs and folded me. White burst in my head. My collar yanked tight and my back slammed the floor.
Then the boots came.
Once.
Twice—something inside me shifted. It didn't return to its proper position.
I tried to curl small. They kept me open. A hand tangled in my hair, lifting my head, and a knuckle split my lip.
"Should've accepted it, kid."
The words dragged me somewhere else.
Two nights ago—foul, liquor stained breath.
A grip I couldn't break.
Human warmth that surrounded me. Unwelcome as it was.
I didn't scream. Screaming only made doors close faster. The shard in my pocket had been cold, rusted.
I didn't aim—metal just found soft and made an entry.
There was the pained moan he made after. I ran. Never checked if he lived. I thought he hadn't.
Guess I was wrong.
A boot into my side snapped me back. I rolled. Scar-mouth's shadow stretched long, his hand on a crowbar.
"Wow. That's what we're doing?"
A boy—maybe ten—stood there. Hands still in his pockets like he hadn't decided if this was worth it.
"Kinda pathetic," he said. "Four of you on one half-dead kid? That's all you've got?"
The air tensed. And pause allowed the trauma to actually catch up to my body.
No one laughed. No one threatened him either. At first, there was only stillness, then their voices dropped low:
"…that kid—"
"—burned her alive—"
"—locked the door…"
The ringing in my head swallowed half their words, but the way their attention slid off me and fixed on him made an impression.
For a moment, I really did feel like the ghost I wanted to be.
The pain stayed, but far away, like my body was something I'd stepped out of.
Every eye had left me. In contrast to seconds ago, I wasn't prey anymore. I was nothing. Invisible.
The overwhelming pain was too much to process, and I went numb… out of body.
And in that strange space between fear and relief, something close to serenity settled in.
A shoe scraped the floor. One of them started toward him.
Scar-mouth's jaw tightened. He raised a hand—not a wave, just enough to stop the step.
The hothead kept staring like he wanted to be the one to put the boy down. He edged forward anyway. Scar-mouth shifted his body across the line.
"Leave it," he said.
Nothing about the interaction displayed fear. If i had to pick one word it would be disgust, but even that seemed to over simplify the emotion that the room expressed at his words.
Who was this kid?
They eased away. No one looked at me. No one looked at him for long either. The space between us felt full of something you didn't want to touch.
—-
Hikari Abbot:
By the time I turned into the alley, I'd already been following them for half a block.
Four grown men. One of them had a limp — the kind that never goes away.
And the boy they weren't even pretending not to follow, speed-walking ahead.
The way the man favored his left leg, half-bent at the hip, told me the injury was old. That meant history — something rooted in pride, maybe anger.
When I walked in, I half expected they'd rob him. Maybe rough him up. But the kid — smaller than me, even — lay half-curled on the ground, trying to keep his ribs from taking another hit. His face was bleeding, and he looked like he hadn't eaten in days.
If this was revenge, it was one-sided. And it couldn't possibly be as simple as an eye for an eye.
"Wow," I said, stopping at the mouth of the alley. My voice carried just enough to cut through the sound of boots hitting him. "That's what we're doing?"
They turned. I stayed where I was, hands in my pockets.
One of them laughed — short, sharp, like he couldn't believe what he was seeing. Another joined in, and pretty soon it was spreading between them.
The boy was unconscious.
The limping one stopped first, squinting at me like he was making sure I was real.
"You look familiar," he said.
"Aw, a crush?" I remarked, hoping to get a rise.
His face said he wanted to retaliate — but his hip would hold him back. Not to mention, he might've been the only one here that realized I could burn him alive if I decided to.
"Keep walking, kid," the crowbar man said.
"I will," I said. "When you're finished."
Two of them laughed again, the sound thinner now as it bounced around the empty space.
The boy on the ground didn't move. His breaths came in shallow pulls that caught halfway and rattled on the way out.
I glanced at the limping man. "He tagged you," I said. "So you came back with friends. Some man you are."
His jaw jumped before he could stop it. The leader's eyes flicked toward him, then back at me.
I saw the moment recognition hit him too. Then he turned back as if to inform his gang.
They started murmuring. Too low for me to catch the words, but I knew the topic.
Their faces spoke more than their mouths. No one really knew how much to believe the story with my name on it — they didn't need to. The shape of it was enough.
The crowbar man took a step toward me. "You think you get to tell us when to stop?"
I gave him a slow, knowing look.
"You think you get to judge us?" he pressed.
"I'm not judging," I said. "I'm asking questions."
Another man, the biggest of the four, started forward — but the leader slid an arm across him without looking away from me. "Leave it."
They didn't move right away. They traded glances first, each one checking who might push back. The limping man's mouth tightened like the word hurt going down. He spat at me — obviously hoping I'd escalate. When I didn't, he stepped back, forcing the others to decide. They followed him, one by one.
None of them wanted to cross the space between me and the boy like they owned it.
They regarded me like a hazard — something foul even to men who were set on murdering a preadolescent with their bare hands.
On the way out, the limping man stopped close enough for me to smell his breath. He smirked — almost flirtatiously — and spoke softly enough for the others to pretend they hadn't heard.
"You're a nasty little thing," he said. "You don't get to talk about right and wrong."
I didn't answer.
They eased away. Their boots faded into the alley, leaving the room feeling like it had been holding its breath.
The boy — half-conscious but fighting to wake up — tried to push onto an elbow and failed. Air scraped in his chest. His eyes stayed locked on my hands, like they might turn into knives.
I sighed and pulled a half-eaten piece of bread from my pocket, crushed from riding there all day. I tossed it into his lap.
He didn't reach for it.
"It's food," I said. "You can keep it."
Still nothing. But I knew he'd take it after I left.
I shrugged off my hoodie — dark red, sleeves too long for me. On him it would hang to his knees. I set it by his shoulder so he wouldn't have to reach past me.
"You can keep this too," I said. "It's colder outside than it looks."
He blinked like he was both here and somewhere else. I waited for his eyes to settle.
"If you stand too fast, you'll fall," I said. "Sit a minute."
I turned for the door. The night would feel clean after this air. I looked back once — he had both palms on the floor like he thought it might move.
That boy probably had the same opinion of me as everyone else. The rumors weren't entirely false, but telling my side didn't matter. People like stories that fit their mouths.
I stepped out and pulled the door until the latch caught. Cold wrapped my skin and carried the oil smell off my clothes.
"Hmph." I chuckled as my eyebrow dropped on its own. Irritation crept past the effort to hide it.
I stepped out into the alley, cold air slipping in where the hoodie had been.
The streets of Sector 3 were mostly empty now — neon bleeding over puddles, every window dark, shutters pulled. The sound of my boots carried farther than I liked.
Their faces stuck with me longer than their words. How quick the laughter had died when my rumors came up. How they'd refused to meet my eyes as they left.
They'd retell it later, I was sure — human nature I guess. Of the few things I took personally, I genuinely hated liars. No, hate is a dramatic term.
There was no need to hate people. I hated the action of lying in and of itself.
The district thinned out as I walked. Buildings leaned inward, their roofs sagging into each other like they were sharing the weight. Down at the far end, the wall cut the street in half — sheer concrete, topped in a black tangle of wire.
The prison sat just behind it, jagged against the sky, every light behind the fence burning white.
As I approached, the enforcer at the gate didn't lift his head after I slid my mother's Inner Circle transit card across the counter. For anyone living in the outer sectors, it was inexpensible, a gold ticket — the kind you didn't get without years of lucky favors or the right bloodline. For me, it was nothing but an ID to get through these doors. He scanned it, handed it back, waved me on without a word.
Inside the prison, night was kept out. The air was still and dry, heavy with dust and metal. My steps echoed along the wide corridor, past cells stacked three high, voices leaking through the bars in low, restless waves.
The visitation room was half-empty, the air carrying that faint, stale tang of disinfectant and dust. I sat midway down the row, glass wall stretching floor to ceiling, thick enough to stop more than words. My hands stayed in my pockets until the far door opened.
Bootsteps crossed to the other side. My father lowered himself into the chair, slow, like something in him hurt. The cuffs on his wrists whispered against the tabletop.
The scar was the first thing I noticed — jagged along his cheekbone, uneven, like someone stitched it in a hurry.
"You look different," he said. Same voice as always.
I leaned on the armrest. "Good different or bad different?"
He studied me a second too long. "Just different."
My eyes flicked to the scar. "You too."
That earned a short laugh. "Yeah. You know how it is."
I didn't have much of a response.
"Still coming here, then?" he asked after a pause.
"You say that like I wouldn't."
"I don't expect you to. Not after everything."
"Doesn't matter. Should I stop?"
"Of course not! I appreciate seeing you even if it's only but so much"His gaze drifted. "How's your mother?"
My jaw tightened. I looked past him, tracing the ceiling tiles. "She's fine. The garden's bigger than ever. House too. Living her dream."
He nodded once. "And you?"
"I'm still here."
He watched me longer than I liked. Then, almost casually: "You keeping up with the news?"
I tilted my head. "What news?"
"The Eclipse. They're pulling names."
The comment annoyed me more than it had any right to. My mouth stayed closed for a moment trying to contain the emotion.
Of all the things he could've brought up — he picked that. In here of all places.
"…Yeah. What's your point?"
"Figures."
I sat up straighter. "What's your point? You're not so bold you'd try to enter it."
He smiled like it was nothing.
"Right?" My brows pulled together.
He wouldn't dare accept the forced contract. Not just to become Kynenn, but for that. The Eclipse wouldn't give him a chance. It was a death sentence— literally, entering The Eclipse was the sentence violent criminals received.
"Why would you even—"
"If there's a way out," he said gently, "wouldn't you want me to take it?"
I stared. "You're not even Kynenn."
"I know."
I waited for the joke. A dismissal. Anything. It never came.
It didn't make sense. He still had a son to raise. Me! Surely he knew that even these visits — once a month, through glass — were better than me standing over an empty grave.
"That's not even a choice."
"It's the only way I would have a possibility of coming home."
My fingers curled into the armrest.
He didn't hear himself. Didn't realize how much I hated that tone — like he'd already decided. Like he wanted me to swallow it as if it was reasonable.
The words pressed hard against my throat
"YOU WOULDN'T EVEN BE HERE IF SHE—"
I swallowed them down. If I'd finished that sentence it would flip both of our lives upside down. Likely place us on opposite sides.
But it didn't stop the heat from rising in my chest.
I was his only son.
…No. His only child.
The thought hit like cold water. And just as fast, another — ugly, uninvited: Maybe he hates me.
Maybe he needs an excuse to get away from the person who killed his only daughter.
I stared at him, the weight of it in my chest. As far as I was concerned, he was my only parent. And now he was planning to leave me an orphan.
He met my look with a small, comforting yet forced smile. Leaning forward slightly he said, "Listen to me. You've gotta be strong."
I didn't have the gall to make that accusation. To bring up that memory. I didn't want to force that negative memory into any one else's mind.
"I am strong." I managed.
"Here." He tapped his temple. "Not just here." He tapped his chest.
I crossed my arms.
The guard at the far wall shifted.
"Time's up," he called.
"I'll be okay, kiddo," my father said.
"Promise?"
His smile was steady, but small. "I'll try my best."
That wasn't the 'I promise' I wanted.