The first thing Kairo noticed as he stepped into the alley was the smell—a choking, bitter combination of rust, rot, and wet stone that clung to his throat. It was the smell of the Bottom Floor, the smell of lives trapped and decaying slowly under the weight of despair. He coughed, pressing the strap of his worn bag to his chest, careful not to jostle the small vial of medicine inside. That vial was all that remained between his mother and a death she didn't deserve. It rattled faintly with every step, a fragile reminder of why he had to endure another day in this wretched place.
The streets were narrow, lined with broken crates, shattered glass, and puddles that reflected the flickering glow of corroded lanterns. Shadows pooled in the corners, twisting and stretching as if alive. Every movement brought the risk of scraping against the jagged walls, stepping on something sharp, or meeting someone—anyone—with nothing to lose. The Bottom Floor was alive, but it was a cruel, indifferent life, one that measured survival in scraps, in shadows, in the avoidance of brutality.
"Oi! Rat!"
The voice struck like a whip, echoing off the alley walls. Kairo froze instinctively, muscles tensing. His eyes darted to the source: Vey, leaning lazily against a rotting crate, his blond hair sticking up at odd angles, a grin spreading across his missing-toothed mouth. Two others flanked him, shadows ready to pounce at the slightest signal. Kairo's stomach twisted.
He had hoped the early hour would keep him unnoticed. But hope was a luxury, and the Bottom Floor offered none.
"Out late again, huh, Rat?" Vey taunted, stepping forward. "Thought you'd be smart enough to stay in the gutter where you belong."
Kairo's hands tightened on the bag. "Move," he said, voice low, careful not to sound desperate.
Vey laughed, a sound that grated against the damp morning air. "What was that? You think you can tell me what to do?"
The first shove sent Kairo sprawling sideways, scraping his shoulder against the coarse wall. Dust and grime mixed with the metallic taste of blood as he hit the ground. He pushed himself up quickly, aware that hesitation could be deadly. The gang circled him like predators, boots crunching on broken stone, eyes gleaming with malice.
"Hands off the bag!" he snapped, louder than he intended.
Vey's grin twisted. "Oh, so the Rat has secrets. How precious."
The next moments were chaos. Fists slammed against his side, boots kicked at his legs. Pain radiated in waves, sharp and relentless, but Kairo refused to relinquish the bag. Each blow brought a burst of fear, yes, but also a surge of determination. The vial inside could not be lost. His mother needed it. She needed him to survive another day. And if he fell here, what hope would she have?
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Vey pulled back. "Pathetic. Stay in the gutter, Rat. That's all you're good for." The gang laughed, receding into the alleyways, leaving Kairo crumpled on the ground, every muscle screaming in protest.
---
Hours later, he trudged home. Each step was deliberate, calculated, avoiding loose stones and puddles. The Bottom Floor pressed down around him—buildings leaning, walls cracked, windows darkened. Even here, life persisted: rats scurried through debris, children huddled in corners playing quietly with broken toys, and merchants whispered over hidden stalls, trading scraps and secrets. Kairo observed it all, storing knowledge like a shield.
Inside his small home, dim and claustrophobic, his mother waited. She sat wrapped in thin blankets, coughing harshly into her sleeve. Each cough echoed in Kairo's chest, a stark reminder of why he endured the cruelty of the streets.
"I… I got it," he said, placing the bag carefully in front of her.
Her hands shook as she grasped the vial. "You shouldn't risk yourself so much," she whispered.
"I have to," he said softly, taking her hand for a brief moment. "I can't let them take it."
Tears welled in her eyes, but she smiled faintly. "One day, Kairo… one day, you'll leave this floor. You'll climb higher than anyone can imagine."
He chuckled bitterly. "One day," he repeated. The word felt empty, yet it ignited something within—a spark of resolve, fragile but insistent.
---
The next morning, Kairo awoke before sunrise. The chill in the air bit at his lungs as he stepped outside. The Bottom Floor stretched endlessly, a labyrinth of shadows, debris, and faint torchlight flickering in windows. He moved carefully, noting every detail: the way the walls leaned, the glint of broken glass, the distant hum of machinery from the upper floors. Every sound mattered—the scuttle of rats, the drip of water, even the faint cries of children echoing through the alleyways.
At the square, a crowd had gathered around a post listing the names of candidates for the upcoming Trials. Kairo lingered at the edge, unnoticed. His name was absent. Not yet. But the seed of determination had already taken root.
He ran his fingers along the carved symbols etched into the post. Rough grooves, jagged and deliberate. Rules, fate, consequences—etched into stone, timeless and cruel. He didn't understand all of it, but he felt the weight. Each Trial would cost something—pain, risk, maybe even death. But the climb offered a single, tantalizing promise: the chance to rise above the Bottom Floor.
Above him, ninety-nine floors stretched into the haze, each one a world of danger, opportunity, and hope. Kairo imagined himself ascending, each floor a step toward something he could not yet name but felt with every fiber of his being.
"I'll climb," he whispered. The word carried more than resolve; it carried defiance, hope, and the faint echo of dreams too large for the Bottom Floor.
---
The day dragged on, filled with observation and calculation. Kairo moved through narrow alleys, noting patterns of movement, shadows, hiding spots, even the behavior of rats. Survival was knowledge, cunning, and patience. He crouched at times to watch, listening to snippets of conversation, absorbing every detail.
He paused at a stagnant fountain, water brown and thick with debris, yet small fish swam in lazy circles. He watched them, imagining for a fleeting second the simplicity of a life that was not survival, not constant struggle. But the thought vanished quickly. Life on the Bottom Floor offered no such luxury.
Returning home that evening, the weight of his mother's frailty pressed heavily on him. They ate in silence—a small portion of bread and water, shared with the unspoken acknowledgment of scarcity. Each bite was survival, each swallow a reaffirmation of why he endured the cruelty of the day.
That night, sleep brought dreams of stairs. Endless, twisting staircases reaching impossibly into the sky. Shadowy figures watched him climb, some cheering, some silent. Pain seared his feet, his body bruised and battered, yet he climbed, driven by something that felt like desperation intertwined with hope.
He awoke, hands scraped, nails broken, body aching—but determination remained. One day, he would climb. One day, he would reach the top. Whatever awaited him there, he would face it.
---
Whispers of past Trials filled the Bottom Floor like smoke. Survivors were spoken of with awe, others with fear. Those who failed vanished. The city itself seemed alive, observing, testing, judging. Kairo listened, absorbed every tale, every warning, every hint of strategy.
The ninety-nine floors above waited, humming with life and danger. The Bottom Floor might claim him today, tomorrow, or the next day—but he would rise.
Even if it killed him.