I'm losing my sanity…
In a forgotten nook of a Strovian slum, Sieg — a frail-looking boy in ragged garments, his skin filled with fresh bruises, found himself under a merciless beating.
"This is what you get if you don't listen to us!" a thug named Grizz said while kicking the poor Sieg lying defenseless on the dirty ground.
Mice and insects were scattering everywhere — the smell of blood and rotting trash swirled in the air, but for gutter rats like them, it was just another day at the gulags.
"Heh, his mommy keeps sending him loads of cash. We'll help ourselves to it." One of the thugs, named Ralts, was checking a brown envelope that belonged to Sieg.
How dare you, don't open it…
It held 1000 ₷trovian dollars that his mother had sent to him — precious money that was supposed to help her son escape poverty.
For a better life…
But even now — Sieg's mother wasn't aware that for the past three years, all the money she sent to her son had been stolen by the local thugs' gang.
"Look at this — the usual letters his cute mother sent him. Useless junk. You can have this, little boy. And remember, write a letter to your mother saying you want more!" Knuck, the imposing and muscular thug leader, threw what was left toward the beaten-up boy.
The crumpled pages drifted to the dirt, landing right next to him.
"Mother…" Sieg murmured as the thugs walked away, laughing and savoring the crisp grey money they had stolen from him.
Sieg clutched his stomach; the pain was unbearable.
One day… you'll pay for this… all of you…
Today he decided to grow a spine and stand up to his opposition, but that only brought him into an even deeper mess.
After all, here it's the survival of the fittest, the strong devouring the weak — an unfriendly ecosystem of selfishness and poverty.
He mustered all his remaining strength to get up, while collecting only one letter on the floor — the one with the color red, as that was the one that held his mother's words.
The rest were simply certifications showing that the letters had been handled by a trusted company, including the details of their sender and recipient.
I want to go home…
Sieg, with his battered body, walked through the sketchy parts of the slums — mean-looking stares met his eyes, and vendors on the sidelines were selling wares that might have held various types of contamination.
The noise pollution in this place was something else… it was rather normal to have ear damage around these parts. Amid the usual clamor, a deranged old man screamed at the top of his lungs.
"The collapsing eclipse is coming! We are all gonna feel the king's arrival! And he demands new children! New sons and daughters! All hail to the lord of the night! The dark star and aether! Devourer of the worlds!"
Passersby ignored him, though a few children gave nervous glances — in these slums, madness was just another friend in the background.
Perhaps the blackwater shoreline right next to the Strovian slums were contributing to the people's insanity, with its muddy waters along the dying horizon, as the slum dwellers had polluted it with their everyday lives. Suffice to say, the quality of life here was unpleasant.
Despite their condition, some of the children here, while not working, were still trying to enjoy their playtime. Sieg walked past them, and most people ignored an injured boy like him — as wrong as it sounds, seeing those with the same bruises as him was a normal occurrence due to the high crime rate within the slums.
Before long, he finally reached his rundown slum shed. It was made of scrap wood and metal, old planks, and barricaded windows. It leaned at a crooked angle.
The boy entered through its wooden door and was greeted by his small room.
He slept on cardboard placed in the corners of the room, and used an old metal box for storage. Hangers faced the sun to dry his clothes. The boy was feeling hungry, so he had to taste his good ol' struggle meal.
"A can of sardines, good stuff—" he pried it open, revealing a fish covered in tomato sauce. Without further delay, he ate with his bare hands.
Hygiene wasn't his strongest suit.
I would've been eating better and living better if I had not messed up.
As he ate the sardines frustratingly, his mind remembered the letter from his mother — it was something he always looked out for. After he finished eating, he washed his hands outside at the public faucet, though whether the water was clean was a mystery.
He slumped on his cardboard bed and carefully unfolded the red-lettered envelope, eager to read the message his dear mother had sent — one of the things that genuinely made him happy.
Dear Sieg — Have you been well? Are you eating properly? I hope you're living in a better place than before. I am so proud of you, my son. Remember what I told you? Use the money I send to invest in yourself. Enroll in a proper school, study hard, and graduate with high scores. I believe in you. You are capable of so much more than this life has given you…Love… mom…
The sensation of disappointment stabbed at his heart — For three years, his still a prisoner trapped in the filth of the slums.
"Why am I still stuck here?" he whispered, clutching the letter to his chest.
"It was my fault — the moment I received that much cash from my mother, I announced it to everyone instead of keeping my mouth shut, and I don't even have the courage to tell my mother that I've been lying to her about the truth!"
"I'm such a stupid bum!"
Yet as he thumbed through the pages, he noticed another folded note tucked inside. It was smaller, plain, and almost hidden beneath the main letter.
He unfolded it lazily — a stack of numbers and official stamps stared back at him: medical bills from her hospital stay.
Emergency care and trauma treatment: ₷5,000
Surgery and operating room: ₷15,000
ICU stay and life support: ₷12,000
Medications and consumables: ₷4,000
Lab tests and imaging: ₷2,500
Miscellaneous hospital fees: ₷1,500
Total: ₷40,000
He knows what these prices meant — yet his mind refused to acknowledge it…
"It can't be…"
Before he could even process this revelation — he heard a knock on his wooden door, it was a rough rhythm, as if he committed a grave sin.
For a moment he didn't reply.
Sieg could hear brash murmurs behind the door — several men, but who could they be? The slum thugs usually left him alone after stealing his money, yet right now, something wasn't right.
"I told you, man, he's in there!" That voice — it came from Grizz. Then another followed: "That Sieg spends all that money on booze and women! Yeah! He wasted all of it!" That one was Ralts.
What do they want this time?
Without warning, the door came crashing open. It was shoved by Knuck himself, startling Sieg, who had no idea what they wanted now.
"WHY ARE YOU HERE? WHAT DO YOU WANT?!" Sieg screamed involuntarily in distress.
"Yeah, he's here! He's the one who had all the money!" Knuck pointed at Sieg, as if guiding someone toward him.
"What money? Didn't you all take it?!" Sieg said — but then Grizz chimed in, "This bastard is lying! He just wasted it on junk!"
Sieg grew both worried and confused, because behind the thugs stood other people — and they were nothing like the usual slum dwellers. They wore luxury coats, were tall and well-fed, with colder, meaner expressions.
But one of them stood out the most: a man with blonde hair, around Sieg's age, pale skin, blue eyes, and a noble but scummy demeanor.
Sieg asked himself, Why is a man like that looking for me?
Chapter End.