I fucking hate it here.
This land is nothing but rot and ruin—jagged skeletons of buildings stabbed into the dirt like rusted tombstones. The ground's soaked in chemicals that burn your boots thin, the rivers slither with parasites that chew their way inside you, and the air—Christ, the air—it's poison. Thick, greasy, stinking of death and something worse. Something wrong.
But none of that compares to the people.
The ones from the outskirts? They've shed their humanity like dead skin. They'll slit your throat for half a ration bar, sell your body for a swig of clean water, and laugh while they do it. Murder. Rape. Cannibalism. Nothing's off the table out here. There are no laws—only hunger, and those twisted enough to feed it.
And that's before the monsters come.
The dead cities breed nightmares. Things that used to be human. Things that never were. Echoforms that peel your soul apart just by looking at you. Shadows that move when they shouldn't. Screams that keep going long after the lungs should've stopped.
This place isn't hell.Hell would be a mercy.
This is what it means to live in the dead cities.And if you're not already a monster—You will be.
A boy—sixteen at most—bolted through the ruinlands, breath ragged, feet pounding over shattered concrete and twisted rebar. Behind him, a pack of outskirt scum gave chase, their voices hoarse with fury, their weapons clattering against the debris—machetes hacked from rusted metal, spears forged from scavenged bars.
The collapsing city groaned around them, a dying beast coughing dust and decay into the sky.
Seyfe didn't look back. He couldn't afford to.
His lungs burned. His legs screamed. But survival was louder.
With a desperate glance, he spotted a crack in the street—a busted vent half-swallowed by rubble. He dove, scraping skin and bone as he forced his way into the darkness. The shouts grew closer, sharper… and then faded as the gang stumbled past, blind to the boy curled in the shadows.
It was just another day.
Seyfe clutched his filthy, half-torn bag to his chest, knuckles white. Inside: a fistful of moldy bread and a wedge of half-rotted cheese—stolen from a smuggler's stash. Barely food. Barely worth the blood. But in the dead cities, it was a damn feast.
He stayed still, listening to the echoes fade.
This was life now.Run. Hide. Steal. Breathe.Repeat.
Slightly hesitant, Seyfe pulled a crumbling piece of bread from the bag, eyes darting toward the faint shafts of light slipping through the cracked vent above. His hands wouldn't stop shaking—maybe from the run, maybe from the cold, maybe from the fact that every damn day felt like a coin toss with death.
The bread was damp, speckled with mold. The cheese smelled like something that had died twice. Still, he brought it to his lips, jaw clenched, stomach already churning.
He chewed slowly, every bite like chewing on regret. The sour rot clawed at his throat, and for a second, he almost gagged.
You're not dying today, he told himself. Not over this. Not over a piece of fucking bread.
He forced it down, bitter mouthful after bitter mouthful. It was disgusting—but it was food. And food meant one more day. One more chance.
His thoughts drifted to the gang outside. If they'd caught him, they wouldn't have just taken the bag—they'd have carved a message into his chest and left him for the echoforms. Like they did to that kid last week. Like they always did.
You can't afford mistakes, he reminded himself. You're not a hero. You're not strong. You're just fast. And lucky.
But luck runs out.
And when it does, he'd better be far, far away from the dead cities.
He licked the last crumbs from his fingers, trying not to think about the aftertaste. Just as he shifted to lean back against the vent wall, a voice cut through the quiet.
"Check over here. That little shit's fast, but he bleeds like the rest."
Seyfe froze.
Footsteps crunched against gravel just above him. Heavy ones. Someone big. Close enough that dust rained down through the cracks, drifting across his face.
His breath hitched.
No sudden moves. No sound. Not a damn twitch.
He pressed himself tighter against the vent's interior, heart pounding so loud it drowned out the world. The gang member's voice was clearer now, closer.
"He's gotta be around here somewhere. Saw him duck down this way."
A blade scraped across the street above with a metallic shriek—probably one of those makeshift spears dragging along the concrete. Seyfe's eyes darted to the small sliver of light ahead, barely big enough to crawl through. An escape route—if he had to take it. If they didn't see him first.
A shadow passed over the vent opening.
He stopped breathing.
For a second—just one—he thought the man had spotted him. Thought he saw those bloodshot eyes narrow, head tilt, weapon raise.
But the shadow moved on.
"Nothing down here," the voice called out after a pause. "Little bastard's gone. Lucky."
Seyfe didn't move. Not yet. Not until the footsteps retreated, not until the street above groaned with distance and the angry shouts were swallowed by the ruins once more.
Then—and only then—did he breathe.
Long. Quiet. Shaky.
Too close.
He'd live another day.
But just barely.
Seyfe ducked beneath the rusted sheet and crawled through the narrow crack that led into his camp—if you could even call it that.
A small hollow space, maybe the size of a closet. The walls were collapsed concrete layered with years of grime, old wiring hanging like dead vines from the ceiling. A tarp sagged in one corner, strung up with frayed cords. Beneath it, a bedroll stitched from scavenged cloth and plastic scraps. The ground was cold, uneven, but it was dry.
That was enough.
A pile of stolen cans sat against the far wall—most empty, a few still sealed. Next to them, a rust-stained bottle filled with barely-drinkable water. He'd stashed a broken radio there too, even though it hadn't made a sound in months. Still, sometimes he turned the dial, just to hear the static.
He sat down with a quiet grunt, bones protesting the sudden stillness. Then, from beneath his shirt, he pulled out the necklace.
A thin black cord, half-frayed, with a small metal charm hanging from it—an old, tarnished gear, shaped into a crude sun.
He stared at it for a long moment.
It was warm against his skin. Always was. Not from heat, but from memory.
It had belonged to someone. Someone that mattered. He didn't say their name anymore. Not out loud. Names were dangerous in the dead cities. They made you remember. They made you soft.
But sometimes—when he was alone, like now—he let himself feel it. Just for a second.
The weight of what he lost.
The boy he used to be.
Then he tucked it back under his shirt, swallowed the ache rising in his throat, and leaned back against the cold wall.
Tomorrow would come fast.
And the city wouldn't stop trying to kill him.