The air in the abandoned Zenith textile factory tasted of cold iron and decay. For most people in the sprawling, smog-choked industrial district of Oakhaven, the factory was a skeletal reminder of better days—a place parents warned their children away from. For Frics, it was a sanctuary.
He moved with a practiced ease, his worn-out boots finding silent purchase on a thick, rusted pipe that snaked twenty feet above the cracked concrete floor. Below, the husks of forgotten machinery lay draped in shadows and cobwebs, like sleeping metal beasts. The only light came from grimy, barred windows high on the walls, casting long, dusty fingers of grey afternoon light across the cavernous space.
Frics was sixteen, with a lanky frame that hadn't yet caught up with his height. His face was all sharp angles, softened only by a stubborn mop of dark hair that fell into his eyes and a mouth that was perpetually set in a guarded line. He was trying to look tough—a necessary skill in the rougher parts of Oakhaven—but a deep weariness lingered in his grey eyes. It was a look many kids in his neighborhood shared.
He reached the end of the pipe and deftly swung himself onto a narrow catwalk. This was his spot. From here, he could see the whole factory floor, and beyond the windows, the endless rows of identical, soot-stained houses where families like his struggled to make ends meet. His father's cough had been getting worse, the factory dust of a new, barely-paying job settling deep in his lungs. His younger sister, Elara, had drawn a picture of a new pair of shoes on a scrap of paper and taped it to her side of their shared bedroom wall.
A bitter sigh escaped Frics's lips. He wasn't here just to escape. He was also on the hunt. Sometimes, forgotten bits of copper wiring or salvageable brass fittings could be found in the factory's guts. A few good scraps could mean a hot meal for two nights instead of one. It was a gamble, but it was better than the hollow feeling of doing nothing.
He pulled a small, half-eaten loaf of stale bread from his jacket pocket. It was his lunch and dinner. He tore off a piece, chewing it slowly, the rough texture scratching his throat. It was as he was swallowing the dry mouthful that he saw it.
A flash of white.
It was so out of place in the world of grey concrete and brown rust that, for a moment, Frics thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. He froze, his senses on high alert. Down below, nestled in a particularly dense tangle of smaller pipes and rusted valves, was a patch of pristine, snow-white fur.
He squinted. It was a cat. A pure white cat, sitting with an almost regal posture, its back to him. In a place where the only animals were scabby rats and mangy dogs, a creature this clean was an anomaly. It was like finding a diamond in a coal bin.
Curiosity warred with his ingrained caution. A stray that looked that well-cared-for might belong to someone. Maybe one of the foreman's families who lived in the slightly better houses on the edge of the district. But what was it doing here?
Slowly, silently, Frics began to make his way down. He used a series of pipes and support beams like a ladder, his movements economical and quiet. He'd learned long ago that noise attracted the wrong kind of attention, whether it was from territorial gangs or factory security who occasionally swept the place.
As he got closer, the strangeness of the situation grew. The cat wasn't moving. It just sat there, perfectly still, a beacon of white in the gloom. He landed on the concrete floor with a soft thud, and the cat's head snapped around.
Frics felt his breath catch.
The eyes. They were a stunning, impossible shade of sapphire blue. They weren't the eyes of a normal animal; they were deep and intelligent, and they were staring at him not with fear, but with an expression of pure, unadulterated annoyance. It was the look a queen might give a peasant who had tracked mud into her throne room.
Frics stood frozen for a long moment, captivated by that gaze. The cat was small and slender, its fur thick and immaculate despite the filth surrounding it. There wasn't a single smudge of grease or dust on its coat. Its tail, long and elegant, gave a slight, irritated twitch.
"Hey there," Frics said, his voice a low whisper. He held his hands out, palms open, to show he meant no harm. "You're a long way from home, aren't you?"
The cat simply stared, its blue eyes seeming to pierce right through him, assessing and dismissing him in the same instant. There was an ancient pride in that gaze, a deep-seated arrogance that was both absurd and intimidating.
Frics took a hesitant step forward. The cat didn't bolt. It didn't even flinch. It just watched him, its head tilted slightly, as if he were a mildly interesting insect.
"You hungry?" he asked, his voice still soft.
He remembered the bread in his pocket. It wasn't much, but it was all he had. He broke off a small piece, about the size of his thumb, and tossed it gently so it landed a few feet from the cat.
The offering lay on the dirty concrete. The cat glanced at the bread, then back at Frics. A low hiss, like the sound of escaping steam, vibrated from its chest. It was a sound of pure contempt.
Frics almost laughed. He'd never been looked down upon so thoroughly by an animal before. "Too good for it, huh? Sorry, it's all I've got. No cream or salmon in this part of town."
He expected the cat to turn and vanish into the labyrinth of machinery. Instead, it stayed put, its blue eyes locked on his. He could see a faint tremor in its slender body. Despite its proud posture and immaculate appearance, it was shivering. And despite its scornful hiss, its gaze kept flicking back to the piece of bread.
It was starving.
The realization hit Frics with a pang of sympathy. The pride was a mask, just like his own tough-guy act. This creature was alone and desperate, same as him.
"It's okay," he said, his voice gentle. "I'm not gonna hurt you."
He sat down on the floor, crossing his legs and making himself smaller, less threatening. He took another piece of bread from his pocket and began to eat it himself, watching the cat out of the corner of his eye. He didn't speak again, just sat in the quiet of the dying afternoon, sharing a silent, strange meal.
Minutes stretched by. The grey light from the windows began to soften into the pale gold of evening. Finally, with a movement so fluid it was almost invisible, the cat stood up. It stretched, its back arching gracefully, a picture of liquid elegance. Then, with a dignified slowness that suggested it was doing so only on its own terms, it padded over to the piece of bread.
It sniffed it once, disdainfully. It glanced at Frics, as if to make sure he understood this was a great concession. Then, it bent its head and began to eat, its small, quick bites betraying its hunger.
Frics felt a small, unfamiliar warmth spread through his chest. It was a strange connection, a moment of shared vulnerability in the heart of a dead place. He watched as the cat finished the last crumb and then began to meticulously clean its whiskers, its dignity fully restored.
Having deemed him acceptable for the time being, the cat walked with a deliberate, unhurried pace towards him. It stopped just out of arm's reach and settled back down, tucking its paws beneath its chest. It wasn't friendly, not exactly, but it wasn't hostile either. It was... an acceptance. A truce.
As Frics watched, a trick of the fading light seemed to catch the cat's fur, making it shine with an ethereal glow. For a single, heartbeat-skipping second, he thought he heard a sound that didn't belong in the factory. It wasn't the creak of rusting metal or the distant city hum. It was a single, impossibly pure musical note that hung in the air between them, clear as a tiny crystal bell.
He blinked, and it was gone. The light was normal again. The air was silent. The white cat was just a cat, watching him with its unnervingly intelligent blue eyes.
Frics shook his head, blaming hunger and the gloom. It had to be his imagination.
But as he sat there in the growing darkness, with the strange, proud creature that had accepted his humble offering, he couldn't shake the feeling that he had just stumbled upon something far more important than a few scraps of copper. He had found a ghost in the rust, a spark of impossible beauty in the heart of decay.
And he knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, that he would be back tomorrow.