Ballister sighed as he wrung out a damp shirt, the cold water stinging his hands. The small basin on his rickety table was barely enough for laundry, but it was all he had. His home.. if he could even call it that, was a single-room space with cracked walls and a draft that never quite left. A thin blanket lay crumpled on the cot in the corner, barely enough to keep warm on colder nights.

He moved to the stove, checking the small pot of soup simmering over a weak flame. Just thin broth and a few scraps of vegetables, but it would have to last. As he stirred, he glanced at the few belongings he owned...a single extra shirt, a dented cup, and a book with pages worn from too many reads.

"One day.. I'll be out of here.."

It wasn’t much. It was barely anything. But for now, it was home.