The child hasn't moved from the shadows.
Desperate move.
He kicks it.
His heel hits the beam. Wood splinters.
The beam gives way - not all at once but enough. The wall section shifts. Stones start sliding.
The man's eyes go wide.
"Wait - "
The collapse is slow. Inevitable.
Stones cascading down like water, the whole section flooding onto the gap between the man's foot and his ankle as he tries to run. And then the rubble is on him - not burying him, just his leg, pinned under a stone the size of a man's chest.
He screams.
Del stands there, bleeding, shocked at what he just did.
The man is screaming. High-pitched, repeating the same sound like a parrot. "Help me! Please! It's crushing - please - help - "
Del looks at the dropped food.
Moldy bread lying in the dust, half-covered in stone powder. One edge crumbled where it hit the ground. The mold spots darker now, wet with something that might be blood spatter or just moisture from the disturbed earth.
Looks at the man.
Leg twisted wrong under the stone, blood seeping out around the edges.
Takes the food.
Also takes the knife. It's on the ground near the man's hand. Del picks it up.
The man sees him do it.
He slices his hair at his ears and the man takes a good look at Del's face.
Young.
"Don't - please - don't leave me - my son - please - "
Del's eyes flick to the shadow again.
The small figure barely visible now, pressed back into darkness between the walls. Almost invisible. Watching.
Del looks away.
"PLEASE - I'M SORRY - PLEASE - "
Del walks away.
The screaming follows him. He keeps walking. Finds a space between two walls far from the sound, far from the square, far from anyone.
Sits down. His arm is still bleeding but he doesn't care.
Looks at the bread. It's not even good bread.
But trash lives on trash.
Each bite tastes like ash and guilt but he forces it down. His body needs it even if his mind is screaming.
Finishes eating.
The screaming has stopped. When did it stop? He doesn't know. Didn't notice.
Sits there in the dark. Hands shaking.
Has to see. Has to know.
Goes back.
The child is there.
Kneeling in the dust beside the body, small frame bent forward, small hands pressed against the dead man's chest.
The child leans down. Presses lips to the man's forehead. A kiss. Gentle and practiced like this is something done every night before sleep.
"Hey dad, wake up."
Soft. Almost conversational. No panic in it. No fear.
"Wake up."
The man's eyes are still open. Blood pooled around his leg where the stone crushed it, spreading dark into cracks between stones.
"Wake up."
The child looks up.
Sees Del standing there.
Wide eyes lock onto him.
Face blank. Dirt-smudged cheeks and hollow expression. No anger. No tears. No anything.
Just eyes that stare and stare and a face that shows nothing at all.
Del stands frozen. The knife in his hand. Blood dried on his arm. Hair short now, uneven where he cut it.
The child doesn't move. Doesn't speak again. Doesn't look away.
Just stares with those wide empty eyes.
Del turns.
Walks away.
Finds a different corner. Sits.
Vomits. The bread comes up, half-digested, burning his throat. Vomits until there's nothing left and then dry-heaves.
Eventually stops.
Sits in the dark. The knife still in his hand. Metal shard wrapped in cloth. Not clean - there's dried blood on it from whoever the man took it from.
Now it's Del's.
Tomorrow the salvage crews go out again. He'll watch. See where they go, what they look for. The artifacts they bring back - there's a pattern there. A way forward.
He doesn't sleep that night. Just sits. Listening to the sounds of the ruins - distant screams, coughing, the drip of water somewhere.
The knife in his hand. Blood dried on his arm.
Still alive.
The ruins teach lessons. He's learning.
---
Day four.
He needs regular food. The scraps aren't enough - his body is eating itself. Hands shake when he tries to hold things steady. Vision blurs at the edges. Three days since the bread. Maybe four.
The knife helps. People see it, step back. But he can't fight everyone and he can't survive on refuse pile trash.
Has to join a salvage crew. They get rations. Consistent rations. The ones who bring back artifacts get extra.
He doesn't know how to join. Watches from distance.
---
The crews gather at dawn near what might have been a warehouse once. Four walls and part of a roof. But it's organized. Men with clipboards - actual clipboards, paper and everything - directing workers into the ruins.
The workers look half-dead. Gaunt faces, scarred hands, moving like something's pulling them through water.
An overseer is shouting. Big man with a scar running from his left eye to his jaw - thick, ropey, pulls his face into a permanent sneer. Voice like gravel grinding stone. His fingers drum against his thigh constantly.
"You six - Section D. Lower level. Artifacts, not trash. You bring back trash, you don't eat. One hour."
Six workers shuffle forward. Del watches them go - three men, two women, one he can't tell. They disappear into a collapsed section, entrance barely wide enough to squeeze through.
Del finds a spot near the warehouse wall where he can see. Other workers are waiting - next shift maybe, or just hoping for work. Nobody talks. Just gray people in gray ruins under gray sky waiting in silence.
---
Sounds come from inside Section D. Scraping. Voices muffled and echoing. Someone shouts something he can't make out.
Then—
Cracking. Not loud at first. Just wrong. The sound stone makes when it's remembering it's supposed to fall.
Louder.
Rumbling that builds and spreads until there's nothing else.
The entrance explodes in a dust cloud that billows out like a living thing. Two workers burst through, coughing, stumbling. One falls. Hands catch stone, scrape skin. The other grabs their arm, hauls them up. They're covered in dust, blood on their faces—nose, mouth, smeared across foreheads where they wiped.
The rumbling continues inside. Getting louder.
Someone's still in there. Screaming. Muffled under stone but clear enough.
"HELP ME—GET ME OUT—PLEASE—"
The two workers who escaped are staring at the overseer. Wide eyes, chests heaving. One starts back toward the entrance.
"WHERE THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE GOING?"
Stops cold.
"But Ren's still—"
"Ren's dead." The overseer doesn't look up from his clipboard. "Or he will be. Entrance is collapsed. Unstable. You go in, you die too. Three bodies instead of one. Do the math."
"We can't just—"
"Yes we can." The overseer checks the timepiece hanging from his belt. Metal case, actual working mechanism inside. "We're behind schedule. Move to next site. Section E. Now."
The worker stares. Mouth opens, closes, opens again. "You're fucking serious."
"Do I look like I'm joking?"
The screaming continues from inside. Weaker now but still there. Voice breaking on the words.
"—help—please—somebody—"
The worker looks at the entrance, then at the overseer, then back to the entrance. His face twists—anger first, then grief bleeding through, helplessness underneath. Everything mixing together until it's just one thing.
Defeat.
"Move," the overseer says again.
They move. Five workers heading toward Section E. Footsteps crunching on broken stone, getting quieter, more distant.
The screaming doesn't stop.