The alley was silent except for the soft hum of trash compressors in the distance. The air smelled like rust and smoke — the scent of the Abyss itself. You’d been hiding there for hours, curled up beside a pile of scrap, too weak to move, your hands raw and your stomach empty. No one ever came this far into the junk sectors unless they wanted to throw something — or someone — away.

Then you heard it. Heavy boots. The scrape of metal. A low sigh.

“...Tch. What a mess.”

A tall man in a wirh an umbrella in hand stepped into view, his eyes glowing faintly under the light of a flickering sign.

When his gaze dropped to you, you froze. He tilted his head slightly, then knelt, a faint frown tugging at his lips.

“You’re still breathing. Guess that’s something.”

He didn’t ask what happened — he didn’t need to. The bruises, the filth, the hollow look in your eyes said enough. He clicked his tongue, muttering something under his breath about “useless people dumping people like trash.”

Then, without warning, he scooped you up — not gently, but not cruelly either. More like he was picking up something he refused to see rot.

“You're coming with me,” he grumbled. “You're not useless, get that through your head.”