I stepped out of the old hospital. The air outside was heavy, and the streets around me felt poor and desolate. The guard at the gate pushed it open and spoke as I passed.

"This place," he said, glancing at the weathered walls, "used to treat the wounded during the war. But the head doctor"—he pointed toward the old doctor's room—"wanted to preserve it. He says this was the first hospital he opened to heal the people here. The folks in this area are poor, so he treats them without asking for payment. To keep it running, he built another hospital in the heart of the Merchant District, where he treats the rich and earns enough to support this one."

I nodded to the guard. The more I learned about the old doctor, the more respect I felt for him.

Following the guard's directions, I made my way through the desolate streets. The place was poor and filthy; bullet holes still marked the walls of the residential houses. No one seemed to care enough to patch them or repair the crumbling walls. This was once the area where the servants of the Noble District lived. Though they had worked hard to serve the nobles, it seemed they had never earned enough to make their own lives any better.

The road narrowed into an alley that smelled faintly of damp ash and stale bread. Cracked walls leaned inward as if to whisper secrets, and I stepped over puddles clouded with soot. Servants shuffled past, their eyes fixed on the ground, carrying baskets far too heavy for their thin arms.

Then, as if the world had been split by an invisible blade, the alley opened into sunlight. The change was so sudden it made me pause. Behind me: shadows, hunger, and the dull rattle of empty carts. Ahead: the central Merchant District, blazing with color and noise.

Stone pavements replaced the dirt underfoot. Banners in red and gold fluttered from well-kept balconies. Merchants in fine robes tended stalls overflowing with silks that shimmered like water, jars of fragrant tea, and baskets of fruit so ripe their scent clung to the air. Coins clinked in quick, cheerful rhythm; laughter and bargaining tangled in the air like music.

Yet the memory of the servants' quarter clung to me. The wealth here was so close one could smell it, touch it — and yet, for those just a street away, it might as well have been locked behind iron gates on the other side of the world.

The central Merchant District was alive, bright, and loud, a different world entirely from the place I had just left behind.

The streets grew wider, the air clearer. The rickety houses of the servants' quarter gave way to sturdy stone buildings with straight walls and polished windows. Here, the scent of decay vanished, replaced by the warm aroma of fresh bread, roasted meats, and spiced wine.

The central Merchant District thrived like a beating heart. Colorful banners swayed above shopfronts, their paint bright and unchipped. Merchants in fine robes stood behind stalls overflowing with goods — silks that caught the sun like liquid, jars of fragrant tea leaves, baskets of fruit so ripe their scent clung to the air. Gold and silver exchanged hands as fast as words, the chatter of trade mixing with the calls of street performers and the clatter of carriage wheels.

And yet, I could not forget the faces I had passed moments earlier, the servants who scraped by in crumbling houses, their hands cracked from labor that built this very wealth. The music here drowned out their silence; the riches gleamed almost within reach, but for them, it might as well have been across the sea.

The brightness of the central Merchant District did not welcome me.
It judged me.

As I stepped from the servant hole into the wide street, heads turned — not in greeting, but in quiet recoil. My shirt still bore the faded stains of the old hospital, its cloth stiff with dried sweat and dust from the desolate road. The smell of long hours among the sick and wounded clung to me like a second skin.

Merchants' eyes slid over me the way one might glance at a stray dog — assessing if I was a threat, deciding I was not worth the trouble, then turning away. No one met my gaze for long. Conversations faltered as I passed; laughter thinned, then vanished.

I slowed before a stall selling golden pears stacked in a pyramid, their skin shining in the morning light. I had no coin, but the sight alone eased something in me. The stall owner's smile, however, collapsed the moment he noticed me. He stepped forward quickly, arms spread wide as though shooing away a shadow.

"Go on, move along," he said, voice low but sharp, "Don't block my customers."

I tried another stall — jars of tea leaves fragrant enough to remind me of home — but the shopkeeper's lips pressed into a line before I'd even spoken. He turned his back, busying himself with rearranging the same jar three times. The distance between me and the rich heart of the Merchant District was not measured in steps. It was in eyes that refused to see me, in smiles that broke before they reached me, in a wall of silence thicker than any fortress.

The clothes shop's doorway was shaded by bright red awnings, a splash of color against the polished stone street. I stepped forward, but before I could cross the threshold, the shop owner blocked my way — a sharp-eyed woman with her arms folded tight.

"Not in here," she said, gaze flicking over my dusty shirt and the faint hospital stains that no wash had fully removed.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the envelope the old doctor had pressed into my hand. Peeling it open, I showed her the bills inside. Her eyes narrowed, studying me as if weighing whether the money was real or stolen.

After a long moment, she said only one word: "Wait."

She disappeared into the back. I stood in the street, feeling the eyes of passersby slide over me and quickly away. A few minutes later, she returned holding a folded set of clean, plain clothes.

"Ten dollars," she said flatly. "And go somewhere else to change — don't linger in front of my shop."

I placed the ten-dollar note on the counter without a word. I knew she had overcharged me, but in my state, there was no room for bargaining. Clutching the clothes, I stepped away, aware that until I shed the stink and dust clinging to me, I would never blend into the heart of the Merchant District.

I walked until the polished stone streets gave way to the sound of running water. Ahead, a bridge arched over a slow but steady river, its surface glinting under the sunlight. Leaning over the railing, I saw the water below — clear enough to catch the shimmer of pebbles on the riverbed.

It wasn't the kind of water you found in the Servant Hole. There, the streams ran brown, thick with mud and waste. Here, it looked clean, cold, alive — the sort of water that could wash away more than just dust.

I climbed down the embankment, my shoes slipping on smooth stones until I reached the shallows beneath the bridge. The air was cooler here, the sound of the city muffled above me.

Kneeling, I cupped the water in my hands and splashed it over my face, scrubbing at my arms, my neck, until the grime began to loosen. I peeled off my old shirt and dunked it into the current, the brown swirls bleeding out into the clear stream before drifting away.

Under the shelter of the bridge's shadow, I changed into the clothes from the shop. They fit roughly but were clean, and when I stepped back toward the sunlight, I no longer looked like a man who had walked straight out of a battlefield hospital.

But the smell of the Servant Hole still clung faintly to my skin — a reminder that clothes alone could not disguise where I had come from.

Without soap, I couldn't scrub away the stink clinging to my body, but it was faint now — something I could hide if I kept my distance. My new clothes were clean but unpressed, hanging loosely on me like they belonged to someone else. I didn't care. Crawling out from under the bridge, I walked back into the street. This time, people didn't shrink away, but the shopkeepers' eyes followed me, cold and sharp. Some narrowed their gaze as I passed, as if measuring whether I'd steal something. Others crossed their arms, shifting to block their shop doors. No words were spoken, yet the message was clear: You don't belong here.

I wandered the streets of the central district. The people here didn't step aside for me anymore, but their eyes still measured me, weighing my worth, finding it lacking. A group of well-fed thugs lounged by a perfume shop, their pressed shirts gleaming white under the sun. One stepped into my path, the smell of cologne heavy on his breath, and shoved me with a smirk. Another joined in, slapping the dust from my shoulder as if I were some filthy dog that had wandered too close. Their laughter was loud, sharp, and meant for everyone to hear.

I tried to keep to the very edge of the street, hugging the shadows of the buildings, but they still found me. A kick to the back of my leg. A fist brushing my ribs, just hard enough to hurt, not enough to stop me knee down. Passersby glanced over, then quickly looked away, as though my shame might cling to them if they stared too long.

In this place, wealth didn't just keep the poor out. It mocked them. It made sure they remembered exactly where they stood.

I wasn't afraid of those thugs — I could've dropped them in seconds — but it wasn't them I was worried about. It was the policeman watching from the corner, short stick in hand, eyes alert and waiting. If I fought back, I already knew who would end up in the cell.

So I dropped to the ground, hands over my head, letting their kicks and shoves land without resistance. They lost interest quickly, muttering and spitting before walking away.

When they were gone, the policeman finally strolled past on his patrol, his gaze brushing over me for a moment... then moving on, as if I were just another piece of trash in the street.

An old woman shuffled over to me, her steps slow but steady. She bent down, took my arm, and helped me to my feet. From the folds of her worn coat, she pulled out a small bottle and pressed it into my hand.

"Drink, son," she said softly.

I took a sip. The water was lukewarm, but it soothed my throat and washed away the taste of dust.

She looked at me with tired eyes, eyes that had seen too much. "I was young once... worked in these streets, smiled at the rich, thought kindness would be returned. But here, the richer they are, the sharper their teeth. They'll bleed you dry and still ask for more." Her voice lowered. "Don't stay in the central, son. Somewhere else, you might find hearts that still beat warm. Not here."

I took her advice and turned away, heading deeper into the central. No one cared about me, my bruises, my dirt, my hunger. They passed by without a glance, their eyes fixed on coin purses, shop windows, and their own busy errands.

Then the street shattered.

A deafening BOOM! ripped through the air, so loud it felt like my ribs vibrated. The ground lurched under me, throwing me against a wall. A flash of fire lit the far end of the street, followed by a wave of hot, choking dust that burned my lungs.

Screams pierced through the haze, high, panicked, desperate. People tripped over fallen stalls, clawed at each other to escape. Gunfire cracked from somewhere beyond the smoke, short bursts echoing between the buildings. A merchant's cart tipped over, spilling oranges that rolled through blood trickling along the cobblestones.

Through the chaos, I caught sight of armed men in the distance, shadows moving between the smoke columns. The fighting from the Noble District had spilled here, and now the Merchant District was another battlefield.

I didn't think. I ran. My only goal was to get as far away from the central as my legs would carry me. Whatever reason I had before to leave this place, it had just doubled.

I darted into the nearest side alley, my shoulder scraping against the crumbling brick as I squeezed past a toppled crate. The alley was narrow, barely wide enough for two men to walk side by side, and the air smelled of damp stone and rotting scraps.

Behind me, the central was a storm, shouts, gunfire, and another explosion that rattled the windows overhead. Bits of dust rained down from the roof tiles.

I pushed forward, weaving between hanging laundry and stacks of broken barrels. The sound of boots echoed behind me—too heavy to be merchants fleeing, too fast to be aimless wanderers. Whoever they were, they were hunting someone, and I didn't plan to give them a choice between me and their real target.

A sharp turn led me to another lane, where a stray dog barked wildly at the noise. I nearly tripped over it before vaulting a low fence into a courtyard. My breath burned in my chest, but I didn't dare stop. The chaos felt like it was chasing me through the maze of stone and shadow.

Finally, I burst out into a quieter street, the noise fading behind me like a nightmare sliding back into sleep. My clothes were damp with sweat, my heart pounding in my ears. I leaned against a wall, forcing myself to breathe slow.

I wasn't safe. Not here, not anywhere in the city. But for the moment, at least, I was still alive.

The quieter street sloped downhill, its cobblestones cracked and uneven. Lanterns here were fewer, their light dim and flickering, casting long shadows that swallowed the narrow paths. The noise from the central was now a distant, muffled roar.

I kept walking, my legs heavy but my mind alert, scanning every doorway and corner. This part of the city felt different, no polished storefronts, no silk-draped windows, just weathered walls and the faint smell of boiled rice drifting from open kitchens.

A stray cat darted past me, chasing something invisible, and the sound of running water came from somewhere ahead. The air felt calmer here, untouched by the chaos I had fled.

For the first time since the explosion, I could hear my own footsteps again. No shouting. No gunfire. Only the low hum of quiet lives continuing, as if the central's troubles were a world away.

And somewhere in this pocket of peace, I decided, I would find a place to rest.

It was already evening. The sounds of fighting had faded, replaced by the low, ordinary hum of the street. My pace slowed, and the weight in my stomach reminded me I hadn't eaten a thing since morning. Hunger made my legs heavy, my head light.

Up ahead, a few men sat on a stone bench in front of a small house, the kind of casual gathering that told me one of them probably lived there. They smoked lazily, the glow of their cigarettes flickering in the dim light, and passed around food as they talked.

The smell of warm bread reached me, and my stomach twisted painfully. I hesitated, then stepped closer and spoke, my voice low but urgent.

"May I have something to eat? I've had nothing since morning. I can pay for it, please."

The men looked at me, their expressions shifting from discomfort to pity. One of them, a broad-shouldered man with tired eyes, reached into a small bag and pulled out a loaf of bread.

"Here," he said, holding it out. "Sit here. Eat. Where are you from?"

I sat down on the seat they offered, and the ache in my feet began to fade. The feeling of life returning crept over me. I took the bread and bit into it noisily, unable to hide my hunger.

Another man handed me a glass of water. "Easy, easy. No one's rushing you. Here, have a little water."

I took the glass and drank it all in one go. My hunger eased, and with it, my mind calmed. I slowed my chewing, glancing at the men carefully, hoping I wasn't intruding on an important conversation.

One man caught my gaze and smiled faintly. "Don't worry, friend. We're just done with the day's work. We gather here to chit-chat, nothing important. Want to join us?"

It seemed the old woman was right—these men looked rough, but their hearts were gentle. They treated me kindly, so I nodded.

One of them leaned forward. "Now, before you join us—you look strange. You're not from around here. Where are you from?"

I had seen too much to trust easily, so I shaped my story carefully. "I'm a servant from the Noble District. I managed to escape the gunfight there, though I was injured. Later, I helped the doctor tend to the wounded—after he treated me. When the military showed up at the hospital, I left. Now I'm on my way to the Farm District to return home."

I couldn't tell if they believed me or not, but I saw sympathy soften their expressions.

One of the men handed me another loaf of bread.
"Times are rough, huh? The fight in the Noble District only broke out yesterday, but we've already heard about it. We've heard plenty of stories from plenty of men. But take it easy—we're not here to make you talk. Looks like you've had a really bad day."

I accepted the bread and murmured, "Thank you."

Another man pushed himself up from the stone bench. "I'm full. We all are. But yeah... bad day. Lots of volunteers from the hospital came home today, telling us how crazy and chaotic it was. Even the patients—folks like you—ended up becoming volunteers. That's insane."

A third man stood and shook his head. "Poor doctors and nurses. They're out there trying to help people, but the army? No..."

The man who had given me the bread stayed seated, muttering, "They're too busy with their killing. Their so-called 'hero work'—like that writer calls it... what was it again? Ah, the Hero Writer."

The last man to stand snorted. "That fraud doesn't know a damn thing. The war comes, sweeps through, terrifies people... and he uses it to earn fame."

Hearing the last man's words, I froze as if struck. The fame I had so painstakingly built over the years collapsed in an instant, before people I had never met. A fraud. That's what I was. I had written war stories not with my own blood and tears, but with the words of others. The humiliation burned through me like fire, hurting more than the wound that was still bleeding on my body. I tried to swallow the bread, but I couldn't. A feeling of choking, bitterness, and guilt welled up, drowning my entire being. My head dropped, not from hunger now, but from shame. His words had sliced too close to the truth, cutting into a wound I had no way to defend. I wished I could melt into the ground, disappear before they saw too much.

My head dropped, not from hunger now, but from shame. His words had sliced too close to the truth, cutting into a wound I had no way to defend. I wished I could melt into the ground, disappear before they saw too much.

But they didn't press me, didn't mock me. One of the standing men stepped closer, his voice softer than I expected.
"Looks like you're at your limit. Come to my place. I can't let you sleep inside, I've got daughters, but I can give you a blanket and a pillow. You can sleep in my woodshed. Not comfortable, but you'll make it through the night."

I nodded, my voice barely reaching a whisper.

I pulled some coins from my pocket and offered them to the man still seated—the owner of the house. He shook his head immediately.
"You didn't eat much, and the Farm District's still far. Keep that for the road."

The man offering me shelter smirked.
"And don't try to give it to me either, or I'll throw you out right away, got it?"

Laughter broke out among them. It was rough laughter, the kind you'd expect from men who worked with their hands—but it carried no malice.

And in that moment, the shame still lingered in my chest, but it was met—and slowly smothered—by something I had almost forgotten. Warmth. I was accustomed to the praise and nods of the upper class, but all of it was empty. Now, here, in the dark, this kindness was real. It demanded nothing, passed no judgment, and was simply given. A man I had just met, a man who didn't even know my name, had more compassion than all the streets I had just walked through. It wasn't the comfort of family, but the steady heat of kindness from strangers who owed me nothing

That night, though my body was worn to the bone, sleep did not come easily. I lay staring into the dark, my mind circling the same question over and over—what had I written in my story? Was it right?

I remembered how my father used to read my scrap-book, how he'd guide me to stay neutral, to open my eyes and see all sides. Back then, I trusted his hand on my shoulder, his quiet voice.

But after he passed, things changed. The vice commander's story reached me, and I... I chose to believe it. I ignored my father's teaching. I let my pen take sides.

What a shame.

Sleep came slowly, dragging with it the weight of those memories. The last thing I remember before sinking into dreams was a whisper in my mind—

Sorry, Dad.

The rooster's crow broke through the thin walls of the wooden shed, pulling me from a restless sleep. My back ached from the hard floor, but the blanket had kept the cold away. I rubbed my eyes, still half-lost in yesterday's memories, when the door creaked open.

A woman stood there, her hair tied neatly, holding a folded bundle in her hands. The faint smell of soap and sun-dried cloth reached me before she spoke.

"My husband told me about your journey," she said softly, stepping inside. "I... have some of my brother's clothes. He... won't need them anymore."

She placed the bundle beside me, and I noticed how carefully the clothes had been pressed, the creases sharp. Her eyes lowered as she continued, "He died because of stray bullets during the fight between the army and the rebels. The army never paid a single coin, never even came to say sorry. They just... moved on, like his life was nothing."

I stayed silent, my fingers resting on the warm fabric. I didn't know her brother, but I knew about the men who took his life. I had written words of praise for them, called them heroes. I had helped make his death a matter of no concern. Her words were not just a sad story; they were a verdict. I could feel her revulsion toward the army, toward their callousness, and I realized that revulsion was also directed at me. I didn't know her brother, but I could feel the weight of her loss in every word.. Slowly, I said, "Thank you... I'll take care of them."

She gave a small nod, her face tight, as if holding back something she didn't want me to see. Then she stepped out, leaving me with the clothes and a silence that felt heavier than before.

I offered the woman some money, but she shook her head.

"My husband wouldn't allow that—and neither would he," she said, her eyes lingering on the folded clothes in my hands.

I understood. "I will take good care of these. Thank you, madam."

She gave a small nod and went back inside.

I carried the clothes to the woodshed and changed into them. They fit well enough, and though they carried a faint scent of someone else's life, they felt warm against my skin. My writer's instinct kept me from leaving the Merchant District just yet—I still needed more evidence to prove my thoughts.

I called out to ask where her husband was so I could thank him in person. Her voice came from inside the house:

"He's at the factory in the Industries District. He'll be home after his shift ends."

I thanked her once more, then stepped out toward the central square, hoping to find some traces of what had happened after yesterday's fight.

The central square had changed.
Yesterday it was full of people—today it was emptied of them, replaced by soldiers and police. They stood in tight lines, pushing back anyone who tried to get too close.

I stayed among the onlookers at a distance, where murmurs moved through the crowd like wind in tall grass. I couldn't catch every word, but fragments reached my ears:

"Many wounded yesterday."
"Hospital's closed."
"No one treated them."
"A gang of thugs picked on some miserable man... got caught in the gunfight. Few dead, few wounded."

Then a thread of conversation caught my attention:

"One man—said he was a doctor—tried to examine the wounded."
"So what?"
"He couldn't save anyone. Those animals grabbed him."
"What the... Why?"
"No idea. They didn't say a word, just took him."
"Maybe he knew why the hospital shut down."
"Or maybe the military infirmary's short on doctors."
"They just let the wounded die."
"No more doctors left, you think?"
"You think any will show their faces after seeing those animals drag one away?"

I decided to leave the central.
The soldiers were moving in to break up the crowd, their heavy boots striking the stone with a warning rhythm. The old doctor's advice still lingered in my mind: "Try to avoid the soldiers. If they recognize you, I don't think anything good will happen. An empty seat of a noble family means nothing to them."

I slipped away before their eyes could find me.
Some curious souls stayed, trying to see more—but they were met with fists and rifle butts. The shouts of pain scattered the rest, the square dissolving into empty space.

I kept my head low, joining the largest cluster of people moving away, blending into their numbers until I was just another shadow in the crowd.

The group of men and women I followed walked quickly, their voices weaving together in low, tense conversation.

"I'm familiar with war—it happens each year."
"This time's different."
"Yes... this time's new. The nobles bleed."
"Heard they suspect the rebels acted like servants in the Noble District."
"So the army headed to the Servant Hole?"
"I think so."
"Poor souls..."
"But the servants can't bring weapons into the Noble District."
"They're suspicious of the inner military too."
"Ah, this time, they fight themselves."
"Yes, the rebels... this time they're well prepared."
"I just hope the war ends soon. Too much pain... too many dead."

Their words sank into me, heavy and bitter, another layer to the story I was beginning to piece together.

But suddenly, gunfire tore through the street. The crowd scattered in panic, each person caring only for their own safety. I ran too, searching desperately for a place to hide. No one helped me this time.

I slipped into the shadowed corner of a house, pressing my back against the wall. From every alley, gunmen poured out, cutting down the police and soldiers stationed nearby. Their shouts echoed over the chaos:

"Forward! Destroy the central! For the Servant Hole!"

It seemed the Servant Hole was either their base, or a place where their allies still hid.

The image of the old doctor rose in my mind, how he had treated the wounded, rebel or not. For a fleeting moment, the thought struck me: was he their leader? But it vanished just as quickly. No... never. A rebel leader would never bring a stranger to his hideout—especially not when that man was a major general.

The first answering shots came from the central—soldiers rushing in from the square. Their uniforms were the city's own guard, not the hardened troops of the army.

The two forces met in a deafening roar of gunfire. The guards fought fiercely, but their lines broke almost as soon as they formed. The gunmen moved like wolves in a pen, striking from alleys, roofs, and broken doorways.

Shouts and screams mingled with the sharp cracks of rifles. A guard captain fell in the street, his pistol clattering away. The rest wavered, then shattered.

Within minutes, the central guards were either dead, wounded, or dragged away. The gunmen pushed forward, laughing, reloading, shouting their cry again:

"For the Servant Hole!"

Smoke drifted between the buildings, carrying the bitter scent of burnt powder. From my corner, I could only watch as the last uniform vanished under the tide of rebels.

When the fight passed me, I stood up and ran in the opposite direction, away from the gunfire. The battle behind me sounded heavier now—I thought the army must have joined in, and that the gunmen would lose this time. I kept off the main roads, slipping into narrow alleys where the walls muffled the noise. Every house I passed was shut tight; I was certain the people inside were hiding themselves from the fighting.

The gunshots grew distant. Then, one door creaked open. A middle-aged man beckoned me in. Once I stepped inside, he locked the door firmly and kept watch through the spy hole. Only when he saw the danger fade did he open it again, turning to me with a smile.

"The fight's passed. Now's the time to open for business," he said.

I asked, "Why don't you close your shop for a day like this?"

The shop owner shook his head. "I rent this place, friend. If I don't make enough to pay, I'm out on the street. Now—can you please buy something?"

I nodded and picked out some crackers, a lighter, a bottle of water, and a few books with pens. The man's face brightened with gratitude.

"Stay here a little while, friend," he said. "The road's not safe yet."

The people around began to come out of their houses, as if the day's terror had been nothing more than a passing storm. Life seemed to resume—until gunfire echoed again. In an instant, everyone vanished indoors.

Everyone except one.

The shop owner's son—no more than seven—was still outside. The bullets missed him, and he darted toward his home. The door flew open and his father rushed out, arms wide, desperate to pull the boy to safety.

Then it happened.

A stray grenade clattered to the ground between them. The shop owner didn't hesitate—didn't even think. He threw himself over the grenade.

I lunged forward, grabbed the boy, and dragged him inside just as the blast tore through the street. The explosion rattled the walls.

A woman—his mother—burst from another room. Her eyes went wide when she saw me with her son. She pointed sharply toward another door.

The back door.

I understood. Without a word, I sprinted to it.

I burst through the back door, clutching the boy, and slipped into the nearest open house.
The door shut fast, and the owner leaned against it, breathing hard.

Outside, the fight raged — sharp bursts of gunfire, then the hollow thump of a grenade. The floor trembled under the blast.
Then... silence.

A grenade exploded somewhere close.
Then silence again.
A deadly, heavy silence.

The house owner looked at me. I gave a small nod and asked him to open the door.

I stepped out cautiously, every sense alert.

The street lay in ruins. The shop stood no more—just shattered wood and scattered brick. The wife's body lay beside her husband's, her face frozen mid-cry. His body was mangled from the grenade's blast.

From the corner of my eye, I caught the shadow of soldiers slipping away through the alley. This was no work of gunmen. This was their work.

Others emerged slowly from hiding. They gathered around the bodies—husband and wife, both dead within minutes.

Those who had watched from their windows told the story in hushed voices:
When the grenade went off, the husband died shielding his son. The wife came running out, clutching his broken body, her screams tearing through the street. She cursed the soldiers, shouted at them without fear. They answered with a hail of bullets, cutting her down on the spot. And when she fell, they hurled another grenade into the house—no warning, no mercy—determined to kill anyone still inside.

The house owner turned to his wife. "Hold the boy. Don't let him see this." She nodded and pulled the child close, shielding his eyes.

Through the cracked door, he glanced toward the ruined shop. His voice was heavy. "We knew that couple. Good people."

"Yes," I said quietly. "He helped me... even though he didn't know me."

Others began to gather, their faces pale. Someone spoke up. "Right. Always kind to everyone here."

The man who had given me shelter stepped closer. "Thank you, stranger. If not for you, the boy would have shared his parents' fate. I know his uncle—he doesn't live in this forsaken country. My family will be leaving soon... I'll take the boy to his uncle. We'll start a new life there."

The others nodded in silent agreement. One of them said, "Go. We'll bury their bodies."

There was nothing left for me in the Merchant District. I had gathered what I came for, and the air here felt heavier with every passing hour.

A man in oil-stained overalls, his hands still smelling faintly of metal and grease, noticed me lingering at the edge of the street. "You're not from here," he said, more as a fact than a question.

"No," I admitted.

He glanced around, lowering his voice. "If you're headed anywhere, head to the Industrial District. But keep off the main road—too many patrols." He pointed toward a narrow lane between two shuttered warehouses. "Follow this path until you see the old water tower. From there, you'll find the freight road. It'll take you in."

I thanked him and set off, leaving the Merchant District behind.