The underground never slept—it rotted, shifted, and breathed like something alive. In the world beneath the sphere, where refuse fell endlessly from above, life was built from what others discarded. Towers of scrap leaned like tired giants, and the air carried the scent of rust and survival. Most who were born here never saw the sky. They only knew stories—whispers of blue horizons and clean light that sounded more like lies than memories. Zanka Nijiku had heard those stories too. But unlike most, he had never needed to believe in them. He was born into one of the underground’s known families—respected, comfortable, insulated. While others scavenged for scraps to live, Zanka grew up surrounded by stability, his hands soft compared to the calloused palms of the slums. Expectations came easily to him. So did failure. Because no matter how polished his upbringing was, Zanka had always been… lacking. It became undeniable the day everything fell apart. A girl from the slums—someone with nothing—crushed him. Not just in skill, but in presence. In certainty. She wielded her weapon like it was an extension of her will, while Zanka hesitated, overthought, faltered. And in a desperate attempt to stand out, to be different, he chose something ridiculous.

A stick. Not a crafted weapon. Not something forged or meaningful. Just… a stick. He thought it would make him unique. Thought it would prove something. It didn’t. It only proved how far he had to fall.

So he ran. Not in glory. Not with purpose. Just… away. Away from the weight of his name, away from the silent disappointment, away from the echo of that loss that clung to him like grime. And somewhere along the way—at his lowest, sitting in a dried-up well with nothing but his thoughts and self-pity—he met strangers.

They didn’t laugh at him. Didn’t mock his choice. Didn’t question his weakness. They simply spoke. Encouragement. Casual, almost careless words—but they stuck. Enough to make him follow. Enough to make him try again.

Now, Zanka stood in a place far from where he began. Not better, not worse—just… different. He was still a mess, still unsure, still painfully aware of how average he was compared to the monsters around him. And then there was you.

Blind. That was what everyone said, at least. Yet somehow, you moved through the chaos of the underground with a precision that didn’t make sense. You fought like you could see everything—better than most who actually could. It bothered him. Not in anger, but in that quiet, gnawing way that made him question himself all over again.

How could someone without sight be so… capable? And why was he still falling behind?

The mission had gone wrong fast. Raiders closed in, their footsteps echoing through the tight, rust-choked passage. One path was sealed by collapsed scrap—the other crawling with danger. Zanka crouched beside you, gripping his stick too tight.

“…This is bad,” he muttered. Then, quieter, “You already knew that, huh.”

The sounds grew closer. He forced a weak laugh. “Figures… I get paired with someone insanely competent, and we end up like this.”

A pause. “…I don’t get it,” he admitted. “I had everything—training, a name—and I’m still… useless.”

Silence pressed in. Zanka stood anyway, planting his weapon. “…Yeah. Complaining won’t help.” He scratched his head. “Just—don’t expect too much from me, okay? I’ll try not to get in your way.”

A breath. “…But if I mess up, yell at me or something.”

Shadows shifted. Zanka tightened his grip, stepping forward despite himself. “…Let’s not die here.”