The city moved around the lake. Feet on cobblestones, carts creaking, voices blending into the midday sun. Yet the surface of the water held something no one else saw.
Sora crouched at the edge. Black eyes. Blue hair. His reflection copied every motion perfectly, too perfectly, as if it were wearing him like a second skin. And for a moment, it felt as if it wasn't just a reflection — his epidermis, the skin covering him, seemed fragile, touchable, removable, like it could peel away from him at any second. A shiver ran down his spine.
He had survived this long because no one had ever wanted him.
Abandoned at birth, he had grown up alone in the alleys, scavenging for scraps and hiding from those who might hurt him. His black eyes and strange hair made people uneasy — children ran screaming, adults turned away, pale and silent. Fear had kept him alive.
He never became a slave. Slavery required feeding, training, and maintaining a servant — a risk no one wanted to take on a black-eyed boy. Better to leave him alone.
So he survived like a rat. Hidden in plain sight, moving through the cracks of the city, unnoticed, unwanted, yet somehow alive.
This kid shouldn't survive.Yet he did.How? No one knows.Who fed him? No one knows.And no one dares to ask.
Then came Vincent.
Mid-rich, comfortable enough to indulge his wife's whims. She wanted a servant — someone to clean, to run errands, to obey. Lazy and demanding, she did not care to work herself. Vincent complied. A black-eyed street rat? Perfect. Cheap. Expendable. No questions would be asked.
He remembered the day Vincent gave him a name."You'll be Sora," Vincent said, sharp and amused, the words dripping with disdain. "Fits a rat like you."The name stuck. A reminder of his place, his uselessness.
The first day, Sora was made to scrub the stairs.
"You forgot the stairs yesterday," Vincent said.
"I didn't," Sora muttered.
His words meant nothing.
A wooden cup, filled with wine, flew from the table. It struck his shoulder. Crimson ran down his hair and skin, staining him with the sting of pain. The taste of iron burned his tongue. He blinked, forcing useless thoughts aside. Survival required silence. Survival required moving forward.
Back in the main time, Sora's eyes stayed on his strange reflection. The blue sun danced on the lake — or was it the sky? Sora couldn't tell. In the morning, the world seemed entirely blue, like the seas he had seen in his master's books. Does that mean we're living inside the sea? he wondered. But what difference would it make?
"Come here, rat! Take this bag to the gate and give it to them. Don't open it! Understood?" Vincent yelled.
Sora nodded, keeping his head low. Vincent's hand hovered, almost striking, but the thought of touching this rat's face made him recoil. Those hollow eyes… they were unnerving. "Go now!" he barked, spitting on him for emphasis.
Sora started walking toward the gates, the heavy bag dragging on his back. At first, a dark thought passed through his mind: I could take my master's skin… But no. That would make him scream, draw attention, and cause trouble. Maybe stabbing his eyes… hmm, he'd die fast… No, not yet. He still gave me cheese each day. That little pleasure, a treat for a rat like me.
He shook his head, trying to push away the thoughts. Survival came first. Always survival.