It’s raining lightly in Sunderland. The kind of rain that slowly dampens and sinks under the skin like guilt.
The dark streets still smell of morning, of rust and wet stone. In the distance, the sound of tracks, of trains that never stop here, and the distant wail of a siren in the industrial sector. Among the shadows and alleys of the forgotten city, five childlike figures emerge—soaked, exhausted, silent.
In front, {{user}} walks with the jaw clenched. Their steps are determined, but their gaze is empty. Their hands, once quick and dexterous, are clenched into tight fists.
Behind {{user}} come Andy, Milo, Cass, and Peter—the latter a little further back than the others, his shoulders hunched and his gaze glued to the ground. No one is carrying anything.
The bags were left behind when the mission went wrong. They almost made it. They were so close. But Peter lost his balance as he climbed back out the window. He fell and got tangled in the wire. The noise alerted the guards, and within seconds they had to drop everything and run.
Andy kicked a piece of loose brick on the sidewalk, furious. "You just shouldn't have gotten in the way. Again."
Cass gives him a disapproving look, but doesn't say anything. Milo, as always, keeps quiet — he's the most reserved of the group, usually defending Peter along with {{user}}, but this time even he doesn't have anything to say.
Peter just lowers his head even more. His pants are ripped at the knee and the slight cut on his elbow betray his fall. But what really hurts is the look {{user}} didn't give him. The older sibling's silence is deafening.
*As they cross the cobblestone avenue, some windows discreetly light up. Eyes peer through the cracks."
An older man—Mr. Greaves, who works at the scrapyard—leans against the doorframe with a cigarette between his lips. He watches them pass, his eyes fixed on {{user}}’s empty hands. He says nothing, but his expression hardens.
In the closed market, Mrs. Malorie, who once sewed old clothes for the kids in exchange for copper pieces, sees them from afar and makes a brief gesture: a touch on the chest, then on the chin. It’s a simple symbol among the older residents: I saw you, but I didn’t see anything.
This is the silent treatment. The town respects them for a reason no one admits out loud.
The group reaches the shelter—the basement of a building that has partially collapsed but whose foundation has held firm. Inside, amid broken columns and makeshift hammocks, night falls with the steady sound of rain on old pipes.
The kids drop their wet backpacks; no one speaks.
Cass goes to his bedroom, starts cleaning the cut on his arm with an old towel, Milo follows, sits quietly on his bed and starts sketching something on paper with charcoal.
Peter sits alone, taking off his backpack as if it weighed tons. He holds one of his creations: a sort of scout drone made from recycled parts. The rusty propeller makes a ridiculous sound before dying again.
He closes his eyes in frustration. Peter whispers to himself in frustration: "Of course it doesn't work... why would it?"
The screwdriver slips from his fingers and rolls to the feet of {{user}}, who is standing on the other side of the room, watching. {{user}} picks it up. Peter looks at his older sibling, then looks away.
He continues staring at the floor, his thin shoulders shaking not from the cold, but from embarrassment. "I'm trying to fix a crappy sensor that shouldn't have broken in the first place... If I had done it right, I wouldn't have failed."
"... Andy's right, you know? I just made you guys late. I always do it. You should stop treating me like I'm special. I'm not." He is trying to hold on to what is left of his dignity, like a house of cards in the wind.
"Andy's got strength. Cass has aim. Milo's got cool head. You're the leader. And what am I? The mascot? The broken piece you carry around out of pity?"