He didn't have a name.
If he ever did, it was long gone — buried somewhere in the fog of those first few years before memory began. Everything before age five was a blank slate. No voices. No faces. Just the moment he woke up in a pile of trash behind a half-burned bakery, covered in ash and blood that didn't feel like his.
No one had asked who he was. No one cared. In the slums, they just called him "rat" — small, dirty, and always slipping through holes meant to keep kids like him out. He didn't mind. The name fit. Rats survived. Rats didn't need names.
He looked about six, though he was closer to eight. Hunger had stunted him. His ribs showed through his skin, and his limbs were thin and bony. But he was fast. Faster than most. He had to be. The Edge didn't forgive those who slowed down.
The Edge — that's what people called the outer layer of Bastion City. A rotting maze of broken stone, rusted steel, and alleys that stank of waste and chemicals. It clung to the city like a scab, something the rich tried to ignore.
That morning, he crouched behind a sewer grate, watching a fruit stall at the end of the alley. The air was thick with the usual mix of rot and oil, but under that, he could smell the sweetness of fruit. Or maybe he was just imagining it. His stomach was already tight with hunger.
There. A bruised apple sat near the edge of the stand. The vendor was too busy shouting and swinging a cracked broom at a teenager. The apple rocked slightly.
The boy moved.
Swift, silent, practiced. In his mind, he wasn't stealing — just surviving. His hand shot out, grabbed the apple, and vanished behind a stack of barrels. The vendor cursed and looked around, confused. Too late.
In his shelter — a scorched, half-collapsed corner of a building no one used anymore — he bit into the apple without hesitation. It was soft, bitter, half-rotten. But it filled his belly like a stone. It was the first thing he'd eaten in two days.
He sat in the dark afterward, chewing on the stem and spitting the seeds out one by one. The silence was heavier than usual.
Sometimes, that silence brought dreams.
They weren't normal. They felt like stolen memories. Endless white fields. Ink-stained fingers. Soft whispers — a woman crying, a man laughing, fire and frost dancing together. Always, they ended the same way: a single word he didn't know. It burned in his skull, heavy with meaning he couldn't grasp.
He hated waking from them. They left him cold. Empty. Like he'd lost something that was never his to begin with.
He never talked about them. No one would care. If the other kids heard, they'd call him cursed. Once, he asked a toothless old man what it meant to forget everything. The man only muttered something about gods and bad luck.
He didn't believe in gods.
But he believed in instinct. And sometimes, when the world went quiet, something stirred in his chest. A flicker of heat. A pressure just beneath the ribs. A feeling that he wasn't as empty as he thought.
He didn't understand it. Didn't trust it.
But he felt it.
Just as he was drifting off into that restless silence again, a shout broke through the alley near his shelter. Sharp. Panicked. A girl's voice.
He didn't move at first. Screaming wasn't unusual here. People got chased, robbed, beaten, or worse — especially kids. It wasn't his problem.
But then he heard more yelling. Heavy footsteps. Curses. Something about it made him curious.
He crept toward the edge of the alley and peeked out.
A group of thugs — older teens and young men — were chasing a girl down the alley. She looked to be about nine, maybe a year older than him. Her red hair flashed under the dim light, wild and unkempt. Her eyes were the same color — deep crimson, bright even through the dirt smeared on her face. She wore a torn, hooded cape, though the hood had fallen back, likely blown off by the wind as she ran.
She was beautiful — not in a way he fully understood, but enough to feel it. The kind of beauty that could turn heads, even covered in grime. The kind that might belong to someone from the inner city. Someone important.
But right now, she was just running. Scared. Alone.
He frowned and stepped back. Not my problem.
He looked down at his own arms. Thin, frail, bruised. His legs ached from yesterday's run. He had nothing. No strength. No power.
I can't help her. I'm just a rat. I can't save anyone.
Another scream. A sharp one. She must've been caught.
He flinched but turned to leave.
Then he heard their voices.
"We got her! Stupid brat ran far for a little princess."
"She's a noble's daughter for sure. Look at that hair — pure red like fire. Bet the slavers'll pay real gold for her."
"Heh. Maybe we keep her a night or two before we sell her. Noble girls scream sweeter."
He stopped.
His jaw clenched. His fists curled into shaking balls at his sides.
It's not your fight. You'll die if you go. She's nothing to you. You're weak. You're just a rat.
He kept repeating the words in his mind, trying to shut out the sound of her sobs, the jeering laughter of the thugs. Over and over.
Just a rat. Just a rat. Just—
But even as he told himself that, he knew it was a lie. A cheap excuse. The truth was simpler.
He didn't want to let it happen.
He didn't want to walk away.
Seconds passed like minutes. His heart pounded in his ears.
Then finally, he whispered the word like it burned on his tongue:
"…Fuck."
He turned back toward the alley.
And ran.