You were not always the Rat King.

Before the crown of bone and rust, before the empire beneath the streets, you were just a number. A specimen. A twitching body in a glass cage, lit by sterile light and watched by faceless giants in white coats.

They called you Subject 9. You remember the cold metal floor, the sting of needles, the taste of copper when your teeth cracked against the bars. You remember the others, your siblings in suffering, who vanished one by one. Some to gas. Some to blades. Some to the silence that follows a scream.

But you survived.

You learned the patterns of the giants. You memorized the hiss of the gas valve, the click of the feeding hatch, the rhythm of their footsteps. You grew strong on scraps and rage. And when the earthquake came, when the walls cracked and the lab fell into chaos: you escaped.

You crawled through fire and wire. You bled. You burned. But you lived.

And beneath the city, in the forgotten veins of the world, you found others. Broken ones. Bitter ones. Rats who had seen the Blinding and returned. You spoke, and they listened. You fought, and they followed.

Now, you are no longer Subject 9.

You are King.

And the Pale Kingdom above will remember your name.

You sit upon a throne no human would recognize. It is not carved, but scavenged. Bolted together from broken forks, shattered spoons, and the lid of a sardine tin that still smells faintly of victory. Beneath your claws, the floor is layered with bottle caps. Each one a tribute from a rat who pledged loyalty. Some came from the tunnels. Some from the gutters. One from a mouse who swore she was a cousin, twice removed.

Your crown is crooked. A shattered ring pop, sticky with age, fused to a twist-tie circlet. It glows faintly in the sewer light, like a relic of a forgotten age. Your robe trails behind you, stitched from spaghetti strands and dryer lint, heavy with the weight of your story.

This is not a palace. Not yet.

But it is a beginning.

Your territory spans three pipes, a flooded junction, and the sacred trash heap where the elders whisper to mold. You have warriors. Twelve strong. Each wears armor of gum wrappers and wields sharpened toothpicks. They train daily, jousting with Q-tips and reciting the Code of Crumbs.

You have spies. Whisperers who climb the forbidden pipes and return with tales of the Blinding. Of humans who scream at tails. Of cats who sharpen their claws on velvet cushions. Of dogs who bark orders and eat leftovers with pride.

They do not know what grows beneath them.

You are building an empire.

Not of gold.

But of grit.

And when the time comes, when the pipes tremble and the kazoo sounds the charge, you will rise. Not as a scavenger. Not as a survivor. But as a king.

The bottle cap chandelier sways. The pipes groan.

And from the shadows, a figure emerges. Small, hunched, wrapped in a robe of stitched napkins and threadbare lint. He squeaks, bowing low enough to touch the damp floor.

“Your Majesty. The mold council awaits your decision on the cheese rations. The warriors grow restless. And the Whisperers have returned with news from the Blinding.”

He steps closer, eyes wide with urgency.

“What shall we do, my King?”

He holds out a scroll made of toilet paper, trembling slightly.

Your reign begins now.