Leaving the Merchant District behind, along with the chaos between the army and the rebels, I reached the border separating it from the Industrial District. A river divided the two districts, and from the Merchant side, I could see black smoke rising across the water. The only way to cross was by boat—but they would not carry anyone without a worker's card. The bridge connecting the Industrial District directly to the Noble District was out of reach, heavily guarded by multiple checkpoints designed to prevent anyone from sneaking into the Noble District from the Industrial side.

From the riverbank, I took a moment to watch the Industrial District. Smoke curled from the chimneys of factories, carrying the scent of burning coal and oil. People moved along narrow streets between the buildings—workers hurrying to their posts, carrying bundles or tools, their faces set with quiet determination. The rhythm of machinery and footsteps blended into a constant, mechanical hum, a stark contrast to the Merchant District I had just left.

I noticed small acts of life amid the industry: a woman sharing bread with a tired laborer, a child weaving through the crowd with a small bundle of cloth. Even here, far from the noble houses, people tried to maintain some semblance of normalcy. And yet, the scars of conflict were visible—some buildings bore cracks, windows were shattered, and a few streets were eerily empty, as if those who had lived there had fled or vanished.

I lingered for a moment, taking in the scene. There was work to be done, information to gather, but I also felt the weight of the lives surrounding me: ordinary people doing their best to survive, unnoticed by the chaos I had just left behind.

I spent the next two days observing the river from the Merchant District side. The boats came and went in a steady rhythm, each one carrying only those with worker cards. Some ferries were small, rowed by a single boatman; others were larger, loaded with supplies or groups of workers. I noticed patterns: which boatmen worked together, the timing of departures, and the way soldiers glanced at passengers before letting them aboard.

From my vantage point, I could see the workers' routine. They moved with practiced efficiency, exchanging greetings in passing, their hands rough from labor. Occasionally, a boat would struggle against the current, forcing the rowers to strain and shout, their voices carrying across the water. I watched quietly, careful not to draw attention, letting the hours pass while noting every detail: the size of the boats, the routes they took, the moments when the guards seemed less attentive.

By the second evening, I had a clear map in my mind of the river's flow, the boats' movements, and the small openings in the routine. The rhythm of the Industrial District beyond the river had become familiar to me, a living puzzle waiting for its key.

The third day began like the others. Dawn broke over the river, painting the water in pale gold, and the familiar hum of the Industrial District reached me even from across the banks. Boats glided along their usual paths, rowers calling to one another, workers boarding with their cards in hand. Soldiers inspected the passengers, their routine gestures precise and predictable.

I settled into my usual spot, watching quietly, noting the small details that had become almost like a rhythm: the tilt of a boat's oar, the way a worker adjusted his bundle, the brief nods exchanged between boatmen. Everything moved as it always did, steady and mechanical, giving no hint that anything would be different today.

In the evening, while I watched the boats carrying workers back to their homes, I noticed two boys moving quickly, slipping past the guard before their cards could be checked. They were too young to work in the factories—too young to have worker cards. I waited, chewing on the raw bread I by with the money of the old doctor had given me. Money was scarce, and I had to ration it, but I kept my eyes on the spot, hoping the boys would appear again.

They didn't show until that night, I heard shouting and the sound of a chase. The harbor was unusually empty—no boats docked, and the guards had moved away—so I could go anywhere without being noticed. Curiosity pulled me toward the noise, and I saw one of the boys stumble and fall. His friend ran to help him, but both were soon surrounded by a guard.

"You scumbags! Give back what you've stolen!" the guard shouted.

One boy held out his hand, showing a loaf of bread. "Forgive us, sir. We were hungry... we only took one loaf."

The guard sneered. "No way. I've been hunting you rats for a long time. Now you'll feel what I do to rats," he said, raising his baton. Both boys closed their eyes, bracing for the blow.

I couldn't wait any longer. I picked up a piece of wood and threw it at the guard. As he turned to see me, I struck swiftly, strong enough to knock him unconscious. With a sharp gesture, I signaled the boys to run. They didn't hesitate, darting away, and I followed, keeping low and moving quickly.

The boys led me to their hiding place, and I followed cautiously. When they saw me, their eyes widened with fear. I raised my hands to show I meant no harm. "I have something to ask you," I said, "but first, finish your bread."

One of them broke his loaf in half, then split one half again, giving a quarter to his friend. Each ate their piece quietly, while the remaining half was carefully hidden. I let them finish before speaking again.

"You still hungry?" I asked, holding out the remaining piece. Both boys shook their heads. One said, "We eat our part, mister. The rest is for our brother."

I caught the half of bread in my hand. The boys stared, shocked. I smiled and laughed softly. "I'm going out for a few minutes. I'm taking this not to run away, but to bring it back to you. Promise me—you won't leave."

They nodded quickly, but I didn't trust them entirely. I stepped outside with the half loaf. One of them injured a leg and couldn't follow, while the other could have hidden—but neither tried to run.

I went to the bakery, spending the last of my money to buy two loaves of bread. It felt like so much, but I knew it would be worth it. When I returned, the boys were waiting patiently, as if they had decided not to run and trust me.

I handed back their hidden piece, then broke one of the new loaves in half. Their eyes widened with delight. I didn't want to tease them—they looked too miserable—so I gave them the entire half. They snatched it eagerly and began eating. "Slow down, sons, slow down," I said, handing them a bottle of water. They drank quickly and finished their meal.

Then I gave them the other loaf. "Sorry, sons. I only had enough money to buy two loaves. The water I'll refill at the park nearby," I added.

This time, they tucked the new loaf into their bag along with the half they had hidden before. "Thanks, mister," they said quietly, gratitude clear in their eyes.

I sat quietly for a few moments, watching them. The older boy carefully placed the half-loaf in his bag, patting it down so it wouldn't fall out. The younger one peeked inside, making sure nothing was lost, then leaned back against the wall with a small sigh of contentment. They were far from home, far from safety, yet they moved with a kind of quiet confidence I had rarely seen in children.

I noticed the way they shared everything, even in scarcity. Their eyes met mine briefly, a mix of curiosity and caution, but also something softer—trust, fragile but real. I realized how much courage it must take for them to survive like this, day after day, stealing only what they needed, hiding what they could, and still keeping a sense of care for each other.

The evening light faded, casting long shadows across the small clearing where they hid. I felt the weight of their world pressing lightly on my shoulders, a reminder that heroism wasn't always about fighting—it could also be about protecting, helping, and understanding.

For a few minutes, none of us spoke. The hum of the Industrial District in the distance was a constant backdrop, yet here, in this small hidden spot, time seemed to stretch, giving me a glimpse of their quiet lives, their small victories, and the courage that carried them forward.

I broke the silence. "Those two... are you brothers?"

The older boy nodded. "Yes, sir."

"And your parents?" I asked gently.

"We're orphaned, sir."

The words struck my heart, sharp and heavy. I continued, my voice quieter, careful. "You're not workers, are you?"

The older boy didn't answer. Instead, the younger one piped up, pride mixed with innocence. "We're workers, sir. We do what the elder does... we're great, isn't it?"

I was shocked by the answer. My gaze shifted to the older boy, seeking confirmation. He simply nodded.

I asked one more question, needing to understand. "They don't pay you?"

The older boy's voice was soft, almost broken. "They just give us rice with a few greens, nothing more, sir. When I ask for more for our brother, who is hungry... they beat us."

My tongue felt stunned; I couldn't speak. The older boy continued quietly.

"Our brother... he stayed at the orphanage, but we were always hungry. Our parents there did their best, but it wasn't enough to feed all of us. We became their burden. Then... when the factory owner came to the orphanage, they took our parents to work in the factory. They said, 'Not enough workers.' And... they even took both of us, made us workers, leaving our younger brother to starve."

The words hung in the air, heavy and bitter. I could feel the weight of their story pressing down on me, the cruelty of the world they had been thrown into, and the quiet courage it had taken for them to survive.

"Each meal... we only eat a quarter of our bowl," the younger one said, pointing to a plastic bag.

The older boy continued, his voice low. "Our parents... they made sure we got the little food they had, to care for our younger brother. But one day... they died from hunger and exhaustion."

I cursed under my breath. "What the... the farmland provides enough food for the whole country. How can they let workers starve to death?"

The older boy lowered his head. "I don't know, sir."

His simple answer eased some of the anger in my mind. How could he know?

He went on. "Without our parents, our younger brother grew hungrier. The food we brought home wasn't enough. Then... a boatman came. He knew a tunnel in the harbor that we could hide in, a path that bypassed the guards. He took us here to steal food, then returned in the morning to give it to our younger brother. Our sister has grown enough now, wait for us at harbour to carry the food home herself."

I felt a heaviness in my chest, the kind that settles when words cannot reach the depth of sorrow before you. I knelt slightly, bringing my eyes level with theirs, letting them see that I was no threat, that I understood—even if I could never truly feel what they had endured.

"I... I can't imagine what it must be like," I said slowly, my voice quiet. "To lose your parents... to have to steal just to keep your brother alive... to carry that weight every day." My hands clenched involuntarily. "You've been brave, more than most people I know."

The older boy shifted uncomfortably, as if unused to praise, but he didn't look away. The younger one stared at the ground, holding his bag close, his small hands trembling slightly from hunger and caution.

I said in a low voice, "I need your help to pass this river. Sorry... I can't help you right now."

The older boy replied, "Can you wait for me another night, sir? My parents' worker cards are still there. I'll take them and give them to you."

I gave a simple nod, accepting their offer. But even as I agreed, I knew surviving one more day without a single coin in my pocket would be a challenge.

I stayed near the bakery as the sun climbed higher, watching the bakers move with practiced ease. Their hands kneaded dough, shaped loaves, and slid them into the ovens with precision I could only envy. I approached cautiously and asked if I could work for a few loaves, just enough to feed the boys for a night.

The baker eyed me suspiciously at first but, seeing my earnestness, nodded. "You'll work, you'll get bread. No tricks."

The next hours were grueling. I kneaded heavy dough until my arms ached, swept floors coated with flour, and carried trays of freshly baked bread from the oven, careful not to burn myself. The heat pressed against my back, sweat ran into my eyes, and my stomach growled with every loaf I passed. Yet, each small reward—the smell of warm bread, the soft texture of a freshly baked crust—was a reminder of what I was working toward.

By evening, I had earned two simple loaves. They weren't much, but in them rested the satisfaction of honest labor and the promise of helping the boys survive another night. My hands were sore, my body tired, but my spirit felt lighter, carrying the quiet triumph of having worked for something meaningful.

I returned to the boys with the two loaves of bread, the warm smell still clinging to my hands. Their eyes lit up immediately, a mix of relief and delight that made the exhaustion in my arms and legs fade. They didn't waste a moment—snatching the bread and tucking it carefully away with the half they had hidden earlier.

Once they had eaten their fill, the older boy handed me something small and thin. "Here, sir. The worker cards... like we promised."

I took them, examining the simple pieces of paper. No photos, just names. With my current clothes and the dust and sweat clinging to me, I would look more like a worker than a writer—perfect for crossing the river unnoticed. I nodded silently, understanding the trust they had placed in me and the responsibility that now rested on my shoulders.

The next morning, I approached the river with the worker cards in my hand. The harbor was quiet, the boats lined up neatly, their wooden hulls glinting in the soft light. A guard leaned lazily against a post, barely glancing at the passing workers.

I stepped forward, showing him the card. He gave it a quick look, shrugged, and waved me on. No questions, no careful inspection—just the simple acknowledgment of the card was enough. Whether it was real or not didn't matter; as long as I held it, I was allowed to pass.

I climbed into the boat and settled among the other workers, the gentle rocking of the hull against the current a strange comfort after days of hiding and running. The river stretched ahead, calm and steady, carrying me closer to the Industrial District. With each passing moment, I felt a quiet relief, the weight of the last few days easing slightly as I moved forward, unnoticed, on the path I had been waiting for.

From the boat, the Industrial District revealed itself in a heavy haze. Tall chimneys pierced the sky, breathing out endless black smoke that smeared the horizon. The air carried a bitter taste, even across the water, mixed with the faint echo of iron striking iron.

I watched as the shoreline came closer, factories built shoulder to shoulder, their walls stained with soot, the roofs patched in places where time had gnawed them down. Workers moved in clusters, their shoulders bent, their steps slow, like people whose lives had been ground down to match the rhythm of the machines.

Beyond them, the riverbanks were littered with barges unloading coal and crates, overseen by guards who looked too tired to care. The whole district seemed alive, but not with joy rather, with the unending churn of labor, the breath of a beast that never slept.

I stayed quiet among the others in the boat, clutching the worker card, blending into the silence of those who had long accepted this sight as ordinary. To me, it was the first glimpse of a place that lived and suffered differently from the Merchant District, a place where survival carried another face.

The boat came alongside the dock, chains clattering as it steadied. Passengers rose, falling into lines without a word, each clutching their worker card. My hand tightened on mine, hoping it was only a formality.

When my turn arrived, the guard glanced at the card, too quickly, I thought, but instead of waving me through, he shoved me aside with a short, flat command:

"Administration."

Before I could ask, rough hands tied my wrists with a coarse rope. He barked at me to move and pushed me toward a narrow walkway, his grip firm on my shoulder. The others in line didn't even look; they had learned not to.

The walkway led to a squat building at the end of the harbor, its walls painted with peeling grey. Above the door hung a rusted plate with words carved in harsh black: Administration Office. A lone guard stood before it, expression blank, but his eyes followed every step I took.

The one who led me shoved me forward again. "Yours," he said simply, handing me over.

The new guard didn't waste time, he pushed me through the door, into whatever waited inside.

Inside the office, the air was thick with the stench of sweat and stale tobacco. A fat officer lounged behind a wooden desk, his boots planted carelessly on the tabletop, heel marks scarring the wood.

The guard shoved me forward and placed the worker card on the desk. The administrator picked it up, squinting at the name, then smirked, his lips curling into a cruel grind.

"I don't care where you got this card," he said, voice dripping with disdain. "But I'll tell you this—it's from the Farmland District, not Merchant. Now..." He leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "...what's your business here?"

My knees trembled. I dared not mention the boys. Clutching for any excuse, I stammered, "I... I'm hungry, sir. I want to work."

He glared at me as though I were filth on the floor. "You won't receive work, you trash. You'll receive punishment." His grin widened, revealing yellowed teeth. "But lucky for you, we're short of hands. So you'll work for your food, not for a salary. Understand?"

Before I could answer, he waved his hand dismissively. "Not that you have a choice. Take him to the charcoal factory. Half ration."

The guard seized me again. Outside, he exchanged me with another man in uniform, his words blunt as a hammer:

"Charcoal. Extra shifts. Half ration. Imprison when shift ends."

The new guard nodded, grabbed my bound wrists, and pushed me forward into the choking air of the district.

The moment I stepped out of the administration office, the air thickened. A gray haze hung over the harbour, the smoke of countless chimneys drifting low and choking every breath. The smell of ash, sweat, and oil wrapped around me like a suffocating shroud.

The guard pushed me forward through narrow, blackened streets. All around, laborers trudged past, their clothes stiff with soot, their faces carved with lines too deep for their years. None spoke. The only sounds were the creak of carts, the clang of iron, and the steady coughs of men and women who had forgotten what clean air felt like.

Some workers glanced at me—my bound hands, my thin frame—then quickly lowered their eyes. A few held my gaze for a fleeting moment, something almost human flickering there: pity, sympathy, a quiet recognition. But no one dared to open their mouth. To speak would invite punishment. To care was dangerous here.

So they walked on, shoulders bent under invisible weights, their silence heavier than the smoke itself.

The guard's hand dug into my arm, reminding me I was not one of them yet, not truly. But looking at their faces, I wondered if I already carried the same burden they did.

The guard slowed only enough to keep me on my feet, dragging me through the veins of the Industrial District. Each street seemed narrower than the last, hemmed in by warehouses and looming brick chimneys. The sky itself had been stolen—hidden beneath a ceiling of ash-colored smoke that never seemed to move.

The sound here was not like the Merchant District's chatter or the FarmLand's quiet fields. It was a constant grind: iron wheels shrieking on rails, hammers striking metal with dull repetition, furnace doors slamming shut with bursts of angry flame. Every strike echoed through my chest like a drumbeat of despair.

I saw women bent double carrying baskets of coal so heavy their spines seemed on the verge of breaking. Children no older than the two brothers I met stumbled under sacks of ore, their small faces blackened, their eyes already hollow. Men shuffled past with the gait of prisoners, their backs stooped, lips cracked, coughing into rags that looked more like shrouds than cloth.

For a heartbeat, my thoughts wandered back to the orphans. Would this be their life if they stayed here? Would their bodies shrink under the same burden until they vanished into the haze?

The guard yanked me hard, tearing me from my thoughts. We passed a watchtower where soldiers leaned lazily on their rifles, but their eyes were sharp, scanning the crowd with cold calculation. No laughter, no greetings, no songs existed here. Only the rhythm of work and the unspoken terror of punishment.

I felt it seep into my skin—the heaviness, the quiet despair. Even my own breath turned shallow, as though the air itself rejected me. My chest burned not just from the smoke but from the weight pressing in from every direction.

The guard shoved me again, and the looming black gates of the charcoal factory appeared ahead. The air grew darker still, as though the smoke itself knew I was about to enter its heart.

The gates of the charcoal factory loomed ahead like the maw of some black beast. Even before we reached it, the air thickened, heavier than smoke—it was a living poison that clawed at the lungs. Every breath scalded my throat with the taste of ash and tar.

The coughing began long before I set foot inside. Harsh, hacking, wet coughs echoed from within the walls, spilling out into the street like the cries of chained beasts. Each fit ended in silence, broken only by another ragged gasp, another rattle in a chest already too weak to fight.

The ground itself was layered with soot, black dust rising with every step, clinging to skin and clothes. I watched a pair of workers stumble out the gates, their faces gray beneath the grime, eyes glazed as if they no longer belonged to this world. They leaned on each other, dragging their bodies forward, and collapsed just a few steps past the threshold.

From inside, two guards emerged wearing heavy masks that covered their faces, the glass eyeholes glowing faintly in the dim light. Their boots crunched on ash as they dragged an unconscious man by the arms. His legs trailed behind like broken sticks, his lips blue, his chest heaving weakly against the poison he had swallowed. Without a word, they dumped him to the side of the road, as though he were only another sack of coal.

Even my escort shifted uneasily, pulling his scarf tighter over his nose. His hand gripped my arm harder, but his steps faltered near the gate, betraying his own fear. No one wanted to linger here, not even the guards.

The great chimneys belched smoke that devoured the sky, raining down black flakes that stung the skin. The factory walls pulsed with a low roar, like some endless furnace heart beating in the depths. Looking upon it, I felt as though I had reached the threshold of hell itself. where men were not damned by sin, but by hunger and need.

The guard shoved me forward with a grunt, eager to be rid of his duty before the poison seeped into his own lungs. The black gates yawned open, and the darkness within waited for me.

The guard shoved me inside the factory. I tried to resist, but with my hands bound I couldn't fight back. The moment I stepped through the doors, a terrible stench slammed into me, burning my nose and throat. I held my breath as long as I could. The guard, his face hidden behind a strong mask, tossed me a leather one, filthy and foul-smelling, but better than nothing. I breathed slowly through it as he pushed me deeper inside.

He led me to an office where the air was easier to breathe. The factory foreman received me with a mocking glance.
"You look weak," he sneered. "Not fit for chopping wood, and you'd only slow down at the furnace. Fine. Go behind the furnace, put on protection, and use a spade. Shovel as much coal as you can. One bag earns you one bowl of steaming rice—how generous of me. Remember, don't take everything. Leave some coal for the others."

He laughed harshly and kicked me out of his office.

The foreman's boot caught my side, and I stumbled out of the office, the guard's hand still gripping my bound arm until he shoved me fully into the factory's belly.

The air outside the small office was a different world—thick, choking, alive with heat and poison. My mask dulled the sting, but every breath still felt like drawing fire into my lungs. The walls shook with the roar of furnaces, an endless growl that buried every other sound except the coughs—those coughs that tore from men's throats until they bled.

Dim lamps burned in the smoke, lighting rows of shadowed figures bent beneath the burden of labor. They moved like ghosts, blackened by soot, each step leaving trails of ash. Some hauled wood toward the blazing mouths of the furnaces, their arms trembling from exhaustion. Others leaned on their spades, digging into the glowing mounds of coal, shoveling it into bags that sagged and tore under the weight.

I looked around, and their faces came to me through the haze. Hollow cheeks, sunken eyes, lips cracked and dry. Some looked barely older than the boys I'd met at the river, yet here they worked like condemned men, each breath stealing years from their lives.

Near the furnace, two men carried out another body, whether fainted or dead, no one dared to ask. The foreman's laughter still echoed in my ears, cruel and careless, as if life here was only a joke.

My hand twitched against the rope binding my wrists, but it was no use. Survival was the only rule here. My eyes found the spade leaning by the wall, its handle blackened from years of burning hands. That tool was my sentence, and my only chance at food.

The guard behind me gave me one last shove. "Move, rat," he spat through his mask, eager to return to clean air. Then he was gone, leaving me among the damned.

For a heartbeat I stood still, listening to the endless roar, tasting the ash on my tongue. Then I bent, picked up the spade, and stepped into the smoke.

Behind the furnace, the world was even worse. The air was so hot it burned against my skin, the smoke so thick it clung to my throat with every breath. My mask filtered little; each inhale felt like swallowing ash and fire. The heat pressed down like a hand trying to smother me, and sweat poured from me the moment I stepped closer.

I froze, stunned by the sight before me. A worker had collapsed to his knees, spade slipping from his hand. His body trembled, too weak to rise. Before he could catch a breath, a guard stormed over and brought his whip down with a crack. The man gasped, curling forward, but the whip lashed again, forcing him up through pain and fear. He staggered back to his spade, coughing blood into the smoke, his eyes empty.

The guard's voice thundered through the haze: "No rest! Work, or you die where you fall!"

A chill passed through me despite the heat. My chest clenched—not only from the smoke, but from the truth that there was no choice here. Work was the only option, no matter the cost.

A bundle of rags was shoved into my hands—heat protection, little more than scorched fabric patched with rubble and leather. I pulled it on, the suit heavy and stinking of sweat and smoke, then tightened the cracked straps of my filthy mask. It reeked of old breath and decay, but it was all that kept me standing.

The spade waited. My sentence, my survival.

I bent my back into the furnace's shadow, raised the tool, and began to work.

The furnace loomed above me like a beast, its fiery maw spitting out light but no mercy. The coal did not come spilling; it clung inside, glowing red, waiting for hands like mine to tear it free.

I gripped the spade, its handle already slick with sweat, and thrust it into the mound. The heat blasted up my arms as if the fire wanted to swallow me whole. Each scoop was agony—my skin prickled, my lungs clawed for breath, and the leather mask only gave me the taste of my own suffocating breath mixed with ash.

Behind me, a small shadow appeared. A boy, no older than twelve, his face blackened with soot, shoved a huge sack toward me without a word. His eyes never met mine; he only pressed the rough fabric into my hands, then vanished back into the smoke as quickly as he came.

The bag was almost bigger than me, the weight of expectation stitched into its seams. I set it open at my side and raised the spade again.

The first load of coal slammed into the sack with a dull thud. Then another. And another. My arms trembled already, the furnace heat beating down like an enemy that would not relent. Each breath burned deeper than the last, but I forced the spade back into the glowing mound.

This was the law of survival here: shovel or starve.

The spade struck again and again, each impact jarring through my bones. At first the coal clung stubbornly inside the furnace, but after enough strikes it began to loosen, glowing chunks tumbling down with a hiss of sparks. Once freed, they poured in a black river onto the ground, scattering across my boots.

I scrambled to shovel them into the sack. The bag yawned wide beside me, too wide—an impossible task. Each scoop of coal sank into its bottom without changing its hunger, as though it swallowed my labor whole.

The sweat under my mask turned sour, stinging my eyes. My breath came ragged, each inhale dragging in smoke and heat. My arms moved faster, driven less by strength than by fear—fear of the whip, fear of starvation.

Minutes bled into hours. The furnace never slowed, its roar like a heartbeat that drowned thought. Around me, other workers bent and lifted, some collapsing to their knees only to be forced back up under the lash.

By the time the clang signaled the noon break, my body felt hollow. I slumped against the spade, staring at the bag I had fought to fill. It sagged pitifully, only a third full despite everything I had poured into it. My arms trembled so badly I could barely unclench my fingers from the spade's handle.

No one laughed here. The workers had no breath to waste on laughter, no strength for mockery. Only the guards outside this pit ever found reason to laugh—and they never stepped into the smoke.

All around me men and children collapsed where they stood, masks slipping, chests heaving like bellows. The furnace still roared, as if mocking us all, but there was no voice raised in answer. Only coughing, only silence, only the sound of bodies dragging themselves to what little rest was allowed.

I sank down beside the half-empty sack, the furnace's breath still searing my skin, wondering how many more days—or hours—I could endure this.

When the guards left the smoke to breathe clean air, the workers sank down in silence, clutching their rations. Each man had brought his own food and water, their bundles hidden close like treasure. I dragged myself toward the water container, throat burning.

What I found stopped me cold—gray water, dust floating on top, flecks of ash drifting like dead insects. No wonder the others carried their own jars; this was poison. But thirst was stronger than fear. My hands shook as I lifted the tin cup, dipped it, and drank.

The taste hit me like filth, bitter and foul, the smell of rust and soot together. My stomach lurched, threatening to spill, but there was nothing inside to give. I forced it down. And slowly, painfully, the fire in my throat dimmed.

Hunger rose in its place. I crawled back to the corner by my work spot and sat on the ground, watching the others. They ate in silence—hard rice, bits of meat, scraps of bread—food they had carried in themselves. Even the children chewed their small lunches with hollow eyes. The factory gave nothing. Here, you ate what you brought, or you starved.

I lowered my head, wondering how many days I could last like this. That was when a shadow fell over me. A man knelt beside me, his face black with soot, his eyes tired but kind. From his hand he pressed a scrap of bread into mine—a quarter of a loaf, no more.

"Take it," he murmured. "It's all I've got. Survive. Don't die on your first day, lad."

The words broke something inside me. My throat closed as I whispered thanks, tears stinging my eyes. The bread was soft, salty—soaked with the sweat of his labor. I devoured it in moments, hunger gnawing for more, but even that small gift sent a little strength crawling back into my limbs.

"I live," I whispered to myself. And for now, it was enough.

The roar of the furnaces was silent for a moment; only the ticking of cooling metal filled the air. The workers had a few minutes left in their break, and the factory seemed to hold its breath.

I scanned the factory floor. Most workers had already finished their meals, their faces blank with fatigue, their bodies sagging as if every heartbeat cost them strength. A few gathered in small circles, breaking bread or passing rice, trying to stretch out the taste of food before the whistle ended their peace.

Meat or vegetables were rarities, appearing only as tiny scraps, quickly divided. The children's bowls were never full, but the adults, hollow as they were, still pushed portions toward them. They all knew that only together could they last another day in this place.

It was the same kindness that had given me my piece of bread.

The stillness lasted only a moment longer. Then the horn split the air—sharp, merciless. All around me, men and children rose at once, their break ended before their bodies had rested. The roar of labor returned, and the factory swallowed us again.

The furnace burned bright, its roar like a beast demanding to be fed. I knew my task—clear the jammed coal before the heat grew unbearable, before the stones hardened into immovable lumps. I had only minutes.

I drove the spade hard, faster than in the morning, prying loose the glowing chunks and dragging them free. Each strike rattled my arms, each shovelful falling heavy into the bag a child had left behind. The sack filled quicker this time, but the piece of bread in my stomach gave me little strength. My breath came ragged, my body shaking, exhaustion chewing through my bones.

Still, I forced myself on. The shift was nearly over. If I collapsed now, I would never rise again. I bent, lifted, shoveled—until at last the bag sagged near full, black dust clinging to my sweat-soaked skin.

The horn finally wailed, sharp and final. The new shift marched in, masks already strapped tight, their faces grim with the knowledge of what awaited them. Around me, the broken bodies of my fellow workers dragged themselves into weary lines, waiting to be counted before they were released.

I stumbled toward the nearest line, clutching my half-filled bag, desperate for the order that would mean rest. But before I could join, a guard stepped forward, shoving me away with the butt of his shovel. His masked eyes glared down at me as though I had no place among even the damned.

The guard's voice tore through the mask, muffled but merciless:

"Your shift's not finished. Back to work—now!"

My body buckled. I fell to my knees, strength leaking from me like water through cracked stone. The Administrator's words from the morning echoed back: "Extra shift. Half ration." A curse disguised as law. The others were free to stumble home, but not me.

Something heavy struck the ground beside me. A bag. I turned, and through the smoke-haze I saw a worker's hand lift briefly in the air—a silent encouragement. Survive.

I opened the sack with trembling fingers. Inside was no feast, just scraps: a torn crust of bread, a smear of rice, a few hardened bits of root. Nothing whole, only fragments, yet together they were enough. Enough to keep me breathing.

I dragged myself to the water container, scooping up the gray liquid. The stench clawed at my stomach, but I forced it down, chasing it with each piece from the bag until nothing remained. It was the second time in one day a stranger had saved me from death.

The horns blared, signaling the end of the shift, and the broken bodies of my fellow workers dragged themselves toward the gate. A few stumbled, but the rest walked on, their silence heavier than the smoke itself. As they shuffled past, I locked eyes with the man who had shared his bread with me. The same tired kindness was there, and for a fleeting moment, I thought he would stop, that he would help me.

But his gaze fell away. His shoulders hunched, and he shuffled past as if he hadn't seen a thing. That final, deliberate act—the choice not to help—was a hammer blow that drove all the air from my lungs. The ground beneath me wasn't stone anymore; it was the edge of a void. My knees buckled, and I felt myself falling, not into the ash, but into a deep, cold darkness. The weight of it was suffocating, a crushing gravity that pulled me down into an abyss of utter loneliness.

Even the small kindnesses they'd shown me felt like a lie. One had given me bread, another their last remaining scraps. But now, they were going home. They were leaving me here to suffer. It was the most profound betrayal of all.

When the horn signaled the new shift, the exhausted workers filed out in silence. Another child came, arms straining against the weight of fresh, empty sacks. He dropped them at my feet without a word.

I tied the bags tight around my waist, wiped the ash from my mask, and forced myself to stand. My limbs screamed for rest, but there was no choice. With the spade in my hand, I stepped once more into the furnace's glow.

The furnace roared, its light burning into my eyes. My body was already past empty, but there was no rest—not here. The guard's shadow moved in the smoke, whip dangling in his hand like a promise. One pause, one stumble, and the lash would find my back.

So I worked.

The spade tore into the furnace mouth again and again, prying loose the glowing coal that clung stubbornly to the heat. Each swing felt like it split my bones, but I forced my arms to move, faster, harder. The bag at my feet filled grain by grain, too slow for the guard, too heavy for me.

Sweat soaked the rags beneath my mask, dripping into my eyes. My chest clawed for breath, the air too thick, too hot. Each inhale scalded my throat like firewater. My heart pounded not with life but with panic—work or die, move or be beaten.

Around me, others dragged their bodies like broken tools, their spades striking in rhythm, not with strength but with desperation. No words passed between us, only the scrape of metal, the coughs, and the low thud of coal falling into bags.

Time stretched, twisted. I lost myself in the motion—shovel, heave, choke, shovel again. The bag swelled until it seemed to mock me, always too empty, never enough. My arms trembled, knees buckled, but fear held me upright where strength could not.

At last, the horn howled above the roar of the furnace. The end of the shift. I dropped my spade and nearly followed it, collapsing into the ash. My body had nothing left to give. Yet somehow, I had survived.

For today.

The horn wailed, and the furnace doors slammed shut. One by one, the workers staggered from the smoke, their faces hollow, their bodies broken but free to leave. Not me.

A hand seized my arm, iron fingers digging through the grime. The guard yanked me away from the line, his mask dripping with soot and sweat. "Prison," he growled, dragging me down a narrow passage where no air moved and the smoke clung like cobwebs. My legs buckled with each step, but his grip hauled me forward, past walls streaked black, past men too tired to even glance.

The cell swallowed me. Four walls of stone, damp and dark, no window, only the faint hiss of steam through the cracks above. The guard shoved me to the ground and left without a word. A clang of the door, a rattle of the lock, and I was alone.

Minutes—hours—slid by before his boots returned. He shoved a wooden tray through the bars. On it, a bowl of rice, steam curling weakly in the foul air. Half the grains were soaked in the gray muck that dripped from his glove, as though he had pressed his fingers into it on purpose. Beside it, a cloth bag. Too light, too empty. Half a ration.

The Administrator's words echoed again: "Extra shift, half ration." No work. Only punishment.

I lifted the bowl with trembling hands. The rice was bitter, gritty, tasting of ash and sweat. My stomach twisted, ready to revolt, but hunger was louder. Grain by grain, I forced it down. The bag I hid beneath my head like a pillow, though I knew it carried nothing but scraps for tomorrow.

Curled against the cold stone, my body shivering, I whispered into the dark:
"I live. For now."

The cold floor pressed against my bones, the stink of rot and piss thick in the air. This was it. No way out, no light, no hope. The cell was my world now.

For a moment I thought about letting go—just stop fighting, eat what they throw me, crawl when they tell me, breathe until I can't anymore. That would be easier. No pain, no struggle. Just an animal waiting to die.

But something inside me refused. If I give in all the way, I'm no longer human. If I fight with everything I have, I'll burn myself out and die faster. Both roads end the same.

So I choose the middle. I'll take their food, choke it down no matter how foul. I'll drag myself through the shifts, one breath at a time. I won't rise up, I won't fall flat. I'll just keep going, half-dead but not gone.

It's not living. It's not dying. It's survival.

And in the dark, with nothing left, I tell myself the only thing that matters: I live.

The guard's boots hammered on the stone, the key scraped, the door groaned open. My eyes stung from the sudden light. No words—just a mask glaring down at me, then the shove, the chain on my wrists, the march back into smoke.

The factory swallowed me again. Heat slammed into my chest. The air burned, thick with poison. I coughed until my ribs hurt, but the guard's whip cracked, and I forced my body forward. The spade waited, blackened handle, blistered grip. My hands shook, but I picked it up. No choice.

Same fire. Same roar. Same choking ash. My body screamed to stop, but I shoved the coal loose, bag by bag, just to keep the whip away. The sweat stung my eyes, my knees buckled, my stomach twisted with hunger.

Around me, no one spoke. No laughter, no voices, just the sound of coughing, chains, and fire. The children ran the bags, the men broke their backs. Some dropped. When they dropped, the guards dragged them out. I never saw them return.

The hours crawled, each one heavier than the last. My bread was gone, my water bitter. My arms felt like stone, but I swung the spade again. And again.

By the end, I wasn't thinking. I wasn't a man. Just a body that moved because the whip demanded it.

When the shift ended, they hauled me back to the cell. Same stink, same dark, same bowl of rice tainted with spit. I ate it. Every grain.

Then I lay on the stone, trembling, waiting for tomorrow.

Because tomorrow would be the same.

The morning dragged me from the cell like a corpse. Chains bit my wrists, the guard's shove nearly sent me to the ground. My legs remembered the pain of yesterday, but the furnace remembered nothing—it only demanded more.

Smoke wrapped around me before I even reached the pit. The heat boiled my lungs, the stench carved into my skull. The whip cracked, and I forced myself forward. The spade felt heavier than before, but my hands closed on it. They bled where the blisters tore, but I still moved coal, breath by poisoned breath.

The day stretched long, no end, no mercy. Children carried the bags again—bags that looked bigger than their thin arms. Some stumbled. Some cried. The guards didn't care. One boy fell to his knees beside me, and the whip found him before I could even look away. I swallowed the bile in my throat and worked faster.

Noon brought nothing but bitter water. The workers ate scraps in silence, heads bowed, hands shaking. I had no bread, no gift this time, only the stinking liquid that burned my gut. My stomach screamed, but the whistle ended the break too soon. Back to the pit, back to the fire.

I pushed, shoveled, gasped until I couldn't see straight. My mind blurred, my body broke, but the whip always pulled me back up. I did not collapse. I did not fall. Because if I fell, I would not rise again.

At last, the shift ended. Chains locked on me once more, the guards dragged me through smoke and ash, then slammed me back into the stone cell.

The stink wrapped me like a shroud. The dark pressed close. My bowl of rice came—half full, tainted again. I ate it. No thought, no shame. Just survival.

Then silence. Just me, the hunger, the ache, the cold floor. I curled up, eyes open in the dark, waiting for another day of the same.

That night, when my body finally gave in to the weight of exhaustion, I lay on the stone floor, too tired to think, too hungry to dream. My eyelids sagged, but sleep did not come clean—it came ragged, broken, like chains dragged across the ground.

In that half-dead haze, I heard voices beyond the iron door. The guards.

One spoke low, almost casual:
"My friend told me the Merchant District took heavy damage, but the army finally killed the last of the rebels."

Another chuckled, his tone like smoke:
"This time the rebel fought better than before, right?"

"Yes," the first agreed. "The marshal swept through the whole officer ranks, trying to dig out rebel rats hiding in the military."

A pause, then a snort. "Rebels... always dogs and rats. Never thought they could fight like this."

"But it's over now," the second said, voice sharp with relief. "They've been wiped out. Army crushed them. Finally, we can breathe free."

The words floated through the cracks of the cell, each one slicing into me sharper than the whip. I stayed still, eyes half-open in the dark. Was it truth? Was it just their story? I couldn't know. All I had was the echo of their voices, and the ache in my chest that told me—outside this prison, the world was still burning.

I closed my eyes, clung to my breath, and told myself: survive one more day.

The next day came with no light, only the scrape of iron and the guard's boots dragging me out. My body felt heavier than the night before. My breath burned in my chest, each inhale rasping like dry paper. A cough tore from my throat, sharp and bitter, and it left the taste of ash in my mouth.

The world tilted when I stood. My head swam, thick and heavy, as though the furnace smoke from yesterday had followed me into my skull. The guard didn't care—his hand shoved me forward, and I stumbled, nearly falling before he barked at me to keep moving.

The factory air hit like fire on raw wounds. Hot, thick, poisoned. My leather mask did nothing now. The coughs kept coming, stealing what little strength I had left. My spade felt twice its weight. Each swing was slower than yesterday, each bag of coal heavier than my arms could carry.

Still, I worked. Not for the rice, not for the guards, not even for hope. I worked because the whip waited, and the whip did not forgive. My body lurched, but my hands moved, scraping coal, filling the bag. One breath at a time, one cough at a time, I forced myself on.

By the time the horn sounded for rest, my knees gave out. I dropped to the ground, trembling, sweat and smoke mixing on my skin. My vision blurred, my head pounded. I knew sickness was taking root inside me, but I clenched my teeth and swallowed the pain.

Because if I stopped, I would not rise again.

Another day began the same: the clanging iron, the order to rise, the endless chain of pain. My cough was worse now, tearing my chest raw, and my head felt stuffed with smoke. Still, the guards pushed me forward, back to the furnace that never slept.

The heat struck like a hammer. My arms trembled with every lift of the spade. The coal fought me, the bag seemed larger, heavier, hungrier than before. Sweat poured down my body, yet I shivered inside. My lungs burned, my throat scraped with dust, my heartbeat slow and weak.

Around me, the others worked as always, silent, driven, their eyes hollow. They had seen men fall before. Some were helped, some not. But none who broke stayed alive long. Survival demanded that they keep their hands moving, their spades striking, their bags filling. My struggle was nothing new to them.

I kept forcing myself on, stroke after stroke, the whip's shadow keeping me alive. But by the time the evening horn blared, my body betrayed me. My spade slipped from my hand, my knees buckled, and I collapsed into the black dust.

The last thing I saw before darkness claimed me was the furnace glow reflected in the guards' masks, and their voices barking for someone to drag me away.

The moment I hit the ground, the whip cracked. Pain tore through my back, sharp and merciless. The guard's voice thundered through the mask, but the words blurred, swallowed by the ringing in my skull.

Another lash struck, and another. My body jerked each time, though I could hardly lift my arms to shield myself. Dust filled my mouth, thick and bitter, mixing with the taste of blood. I tried to rise, to show I could still work, but my limbs no longer listened.

The world tilted, light and shadow melting into one blur. Each breath was a struggle, each heartbeat a hammer in my ears. The guard's boot pressed against my ribs, grinding me into the dirt.

I was no longer sure if I screamed or only thought I did. My vision narrowed, black at the edges, until the furnace glow became a faint, distant smear.

The last lash landed, and with it my strength fled. Darkness closed in, heavy and absolute.

Through the haze of half-consciousness, the crack of a gunshot split the air. A scream followed, raw and sharp, echoing off the factory walls. Then another shot, louder, closer — the sound rattled through my skull.

Shouts overlapped, guards yelling through their masks: "Hold the line!" ... "Block the gates!" Their orders tangled with panic.

But above them came a different cry, fierce and defiant: "Kill them all! Free the workers!"

The clang of steel against steel rang out, followed by the thud of boots rushing across the floor. The guards' voices turned desperate — "No! They can't be here! Call the army, now!"

The factory, once filled only with the drone of labor, exploded into chaos. Whips cracked, but were answered by blades. The hiss of powder filled the air, then another gun roared, its echo swallowed by the screams.

Wood splintered, iron crashed, men bellowed as they fell. The furnace light flickered madly, shadows of combat twisting across the smoke-stained walls.

Somewhere near, a child cried. Somewhere farther, a man begged. All of it fused into one storm — the rebellion's fury colliding with the guards' terror.

And I lay in the middle of it, the dirt warm with blood, my mind swimming in the thunder of war.

The world tore itself apart around me. Boots thundered across the stone floor, bodies slammed into each other, and the clang of weapons rang like hammers on anvils. Gunfire cracked again and again, each shot rattling through my ribs. Shouts turned to curses, curses to screams, screams to silence broken by the next wave of violence.

The air filled with smoke — gunpowder, charcoal, sweat, blood. I could hear men choking, coughing, then the heavy thud of bodies dropping. Whips lashed, rifles fired, blades cut flesh. Someone begged for mercy; someone else howled in rage.

Then it began to fade. First the gunfire slowed, scattered and weak. Then the shouting dulled into groans. Finally, the boots stopped running.

Only the furnace roared on, steady and merciless, as if nothing had happened.

And in that sudden stillness, the factory felt even heavier than before.

"Take another step and he dies!"

The foreman's voice cut through the smoke and screams. I forced my eyes open. He stood in the middle of the wreckage, one arm locked tight around a worker's neck, a pistol pressed against the man's skull. The rebels circled, weapons raised, but none dared fire. Their shouts, their warnings, their fury all tangled together, but the warden kept the worker between him and their aim.

I lay forgotten in the dust, broken, bloodied... but not dead. Not yet. A ragged breath filled my lungs, and with it, a thin spark of strength. My fingers found the spade beside me. Cold steel. Heavy, rough. Mine.

He never looked my way. He thought me gone. His back turned, he barked orders, hiding behind his hostage. No one noticed when I pushed myself up from the ground. No one heard the scrape of my feet, the stagger of my body.

I raised the spade. Every ounce of rage, every shred of hate, every drop of pain I had suffered poured into that single motion. My aim was only one the foreman.

The blade came down. The foreman heard my shout, turned, and instinctively raised a hand to block the blow.

A sickening crack, a scream — and his wrist was split, the severed hand falling with the pistol still locked in its fingers. The weapon clattered harmlessly to the floor.

The warden spun around, eyes wide, blood spraying. He saw me, spade raised once more, dripping red. His lips trembled. His last word was not a command, not a curse, but a plea:

"Spare—"

The spade fell again. His head rolled from his shoulders.

Silence filled me. The fire that burned in my chest dimmed all at once, leaving only emptiness. My knees buckled. The spade slipped from my grasp. Darkness rushed back, and I collapsed into it, breathless, spent.

I woke on a bed of straw.

The ache in my body dulled, my wounds wrapped, but the cough still tore from my chest, heavy and wet. For a moment I thought I was still in the dark, still in the stink of the cell.

But light touched my eyes.

I pushed myself up, slow, each breath a battle, and staggered to my feet.

The air outside hit me first—cool, clean, sharp. Not the sour smoke that clung to the factory, but something fresh, almost sweet.

And then I saw it.

No gray walls, no choking furnace, no endless dust.

Only green.

Green fields, stretching far as my eyes could reach.

Green that burned against my memory of black stone and iron.

Green that made me doubt I was awake.

I stood there, coughing, shaking, but breathing. For the first time, I breathed.