The morning air was thick with the sour stink of wine and wet wood.
In the Red District, dawn never really came — only a pale light that crawled between cracks, revealing what the night left behind.
Madam Sura's house was quiet. The laughter, the perfume, the painted smiles — all gone with the rain. Only the creak of old floorboards and the muffled hum of the city below.
The boy had just returned from the market, head low, shoulders tight beneath his worn cloak. His hands still trembled from the night before — from the blood, the box, the thing that moved inside. He hadn't slept. Couldn't. Every blink brought back that flash of pain, that black nail tearing into his skin.
He was sorting broken glass behind the counter when he heard voices downstairs.
Heavy. Confident.
Not customers.
Then — the name.
Kareth.
He froze.
"—A skinny boy," a gravel voice said. "From this brothel. He stole something that wasn't his."
Madam Sura's reply was soft, almost polite. " Sir. You'll have to be specific."
"He's about your height," the man continued, impatient. "Dark hair. Dirty eyes. Small enough to slip through walls."
That was all she needed to know.
The boy's heartbeat stuttered. He took a quiet step back, hand brushing the knife at his waist. But the floor creaked beneath him — and he knew she'd heard.
"Wait outside," Sura said to the men. "I'll call you."
"Wait my ass, call the rat here right now"
Madam Sura said without flinching "Don't make it complicated. Nobody gonna like it if you cause trouble in red district."
"Alright, but don't make us wait long."
Footsteps moved away. The door closed. Silence stretched.
Then her voice again, soft but sharp as broken glass.
"Come up, boy."
He hesitated only for a moment before obeying.
---
She was waiting in her room — the one with the red curtains and the scent of fading jasmine. Light bled through the half-shuttered window, painting lines across her face. She was older than she looked, the kind of beauty that time couldn't quite kill, only harden.
Her gaze followed him as he entered.
"So," she said, setting down her cup. "You've made quite a mess."
He said nothing. His throat was dry.
"I thought you were smarter than this," she went on, voice calm, almost tired. "But it seems I was wrong."
He glanced toward the door. "They're here for me?"
"Yes." She leaned back in her chair. "Kareth's men. You stole from someone you shouldn't have. I don't know what's in that box you touched, and I don't want to know. But word travels fast — and fools travel faster."
The boy's hands clenched at his sides. "You told them?"
"They already knows."
He already expected this but stll that word yet felt like a blade pressing against his chest.
Then she paused, her tone softening — almost pitying. "Don't look so hurt. You know how this place works better than anyone."
He looked away.
There was a long silence between them — only the ticking of the clock, and the faint sounds of the city waking beyond the window.
Finally, he asked, "What about Rin?"
Sura didn't move. "What about her?"
"She's sick. If I'm gone—"
"She's not your blood," the madam said quietly. "Why care?"
That hit harder than he expected.
He opened his mouth, but no words came. Only the faint echo of Rin's coughing in his head — the memory of her smile through cracked lips.
Sura turned, studying him. There was something different in her eyes now. Not cruelty. Something closer to weary understanding.
"When people lose everything," she said softly, "they start clinging to something. Someone. Not because they care — not to save someone but to same themselves. It gives them a reason to keep breathing."
She poured herself another cup of tea, steam curling between them.
"But this world doesn't reward kindness, boy. It devours it."
He stayed silent.
She sighed. "If that girl survives, she'll work here. If she doesn't, I'll bury her."
Her words were casual, but they scraped like iron against bone.
The boy's eyes dropped to the floor. He could feel the pulse of pain still burning faintly beneath his bandages — where the cursed nail had cut him. His body felt heavier today, slower. A dull ache lingered beneath the skin.
He knew what was coming.
"When are they coming?" he asked.
Sura set down the cup. "They're already here. I told them I'd call when you arrived."
She walked to the desk, her fingers brushing a small silver bell.
"You could try to run," she said softly. "But there's nowhere to go in this city. Kareth's dogs can still smell you."
He looked at the bell, then at the window, then at her.
"You're giving me a chance."
Her lips twitched — not quite a smile. "Maybe."
She rang the bell once.
The sound echoed like a death toll.
From below, footsteps began to climb the stairs.
He stood perfectly still until the latch turned. Then he moved.
Quick. Precise.
He snatched the lantern from the table and hurled it.
It shattered against the door just as it opened — flame and glass spraying across the nearest man's face. The room erupted in shouts.
He didn't wait.
He dove through the curtain at the back of the room, ducking beneath the low beam, heart pounding like a drum. The narrow passage — he remembered it. A secret crawlspace between the walls, meant for escape during police raids.
Behind him, boots crashed through the furniture. Someone yelled, "He's running—!"
He slipped through the hidden panel, twisting sideways as splinters tore his cloak. His breath came in sharp bursts. His arm burned where the curse still ached — a faint, pulsing pain like something trying to crawl beneath his skin.
The passage opened to a back stairwell. He sprinted down two flights, jumped over a railing, hit the ground hard, and rolled. The street outside was already alive with shouts.
But he didn't stop.
He ran through the mist, through the narrow veins of the Red District — the smell of smoke and wet earth chasing him.
By the time he reached the edge of the alley, his chest was heaving, his blood singing with terror and exhaustion. He didn't look back. He didn't dare.
---
Back inside, Madam Sura stood by the broken lantern, staring at the door he'd vanished through.
The three men cursed, one clutching his scorched face. "We'll find him!"
She didn't answer.
The flames had already died, leaving only the smell of burnt oil and smoke.
She walked to the window and looked out into the fog. The city stretched below — endless, filthy, and alive.
Her expression didn't change, but her fingers brushed the edge of the desk where the silver bell still lay.
"Run, boy" she murmured.
A faint smile touched her lips.