A young boy, no older than fifteen, stood at the corner of a street, hiding behind a crumbling wall. He crouched low, grey-blue eyes locked on the scene ahead—like a predator eyeing its prey. A guard in grey-white armor strolled lazily between market stalls, pestering vendors. Now he was hassling a broad-shouldered woman selling cloth. His back turned toward the boy.

  Jason took a step forward, preparing to make a move—but froze as a firm hand grabbed his shoulder.

  “Jason, what are you doing?” asked a tired voice. An old man, brown-eyed and steady despite the cane in his other hand, looked down at him.

  “He’s got a credit tablet on his belt—right side. It’s ready for the taking!” the boy answered eagerly.

  “You idiot. Look closer… where are his hands?” The old man nodded toward the guard. “One’s holding his baton, ready to strike. And look at his foot placement. His right foot’s pointed at the woman, which means his field of vision will shift if he even hears the slightest off sound.”

  Jason frowned, processing the sudden info-dump. “I guess.”

  “Instead of getting arrested, how about you actually buy what we came here for?”

  “Fine,” Jason muttered, “I was only practicing…”

  They moved from stall to stall through the slowly stirring market, the smell of dust and dry spice hanging in the air. Old, rusted carts held baskets of lumpy vegetables. Strips of cured meat swayed lazily from hooks. A vendor called out half-heartedly about his “fresh” bread, which looked anything but. Children darted between adults, while the occasional clatter of boots signaled passing patrols.

  At one stall, Jason paused to admire a row of homemade jewelry—twisted wire and colored glass that sparkled faintly under the early sun.

  “Uncle Friederick has better stuff at his place,” Jason remarked.

  “That grumpy guy would never make that to sell.”

  “Wait… aren’t you grumpy too?”

  Ashar raised an eyebrow. “Would you rather spend all day with him, then?”

  Jason’s eyes lit up. “Really? You mean it?”

  “…Fine. After we drop off the groceries.”

  Jason hurried back home with a grin on his face, making sure Ashar wouldn’t have to carry the load. At home, he placed the groceries on a metallic, semi-shiny table. The old rusty one was gone.

  Ashar quietly stored the food, then knelt by the bed. From beneath the floorboards, he opened a concealed compartment and dropped the pouch of credits in. Only two others remained—thin, nearly empty.

  He stared at them.

  Not enough to last the week.

  With a heavy sigh, he shut the panel. The pay at the job he had dwindled as the resources mined dwindled over the years as well.

  “One more job,” he whispered.

  Across the street, Friederick sat near his door, gazing up at the hazy sky. His focus broke as Jason approached.

  “What are you doing back? Nothing else to do?” he asked, flatly.

  “Nothing fun,” Jason replied.

  Friederick gave a long look, then sighed. “Fine. Come in.”

  They entered the old man’s home, a collection of scrap and mechanical bits scattered across the table. Friederick reached for the trinkets they’d been working on before.

  “This gear’s from a forklift, but it fits an axle from a door piston,” he said, still tinkering. “Remember—every piece, even scrap, can be useful.”

  Jason nodded, working alongside him. But suddenly the part slipped and clattered onto the table. He jerked his hand back, a red bead of blood forming on his fingertip.

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  Friederick smirked and stood. “This is why I wear gloves.”

  He returned with clean cloth and wrapped the finger gently. Jason looked down at it, quieter now.

  “You’re smart, you know,” the boy mumbled.

  “Experience.”

  “From here?”

  Friederick didn’t answer at first.

  “Gramps told me his experience came from long ago… from different places.”

  “He’s not wrong,” the old man muttered.

  He glanced toward the sky, silent.

  “But mine… mine comes from before even that.”

  Jason tilted his head. “What are you looking at?”

  “Home.”

  “What’s it like?”

  Friederick sighed again, this time deeper. “A metal world. Full of smart people. No… smart beings that used to be people.”

  Jason blinked, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  “Is your finger still bleeding?” Friederick asked, shifting the subject.

  Jason checked. “Just a red spot. It’s fine.”

  Friederick handed the trinket back. “Finish up. Then get back to Ashar before he blames me again.”

  They tinkered together until satisfied. Jason smiled, waved goodbye, and ran off.

  Behind him, Friederick sat quietly. “Beings… right,” he murmured.

  On his way home, Jason noticed one of the girls from the Whispering Night heading down a side street. Curious, he followed—keeping low and quiet. Two guards followed behind her, laughing crudely.

  One reached out and grabbed her arm.

  “Come on, just a little show for us before work,” he grinned.

  Jason narrowed his eyes. It was the same guard as earlier—same credit tablet.

  Second chance, he thought.

  He crouched slightly and stalked forward, blending in with the movement of the street. As the guard turned slightly to face the girl, Jason slipped behind him—silent, unseen. His fingers brushed the tablet—then he had it.

  He veered off to the side, behind the guard’s back, out of sight from the second one.

  When he had enough distance, he turned back and waved the tablet in the air.

  “Looking for this?!”

  Before they could react, he vanished around the corner.

  The guards gave chase.

  Jason ducked behind a sheet of rusted metal. In front of him, he smashed the tablet against a wall, scattering shards. A moment later, the guards turned the corner, only to step on the debris.

  One of them cursed, scooping up the pieces.

  Jason circled back the long way, eventually ending up near the Whispering Night. The girl was long gone.

  He smiled proudly to himself—until he turned around and bumped into someone.

  An old man with a cane.

  “What were you doing?” Ashar asked.

  “Nothing.”

  Ashar scanned the street. “I need to go to work. Stay home, stay out of trouble.”

  “Fine. I was going anyway.”

  Ashar paused. “It wasn’t Friederick who did something, right?”

  “No, Gramps. I’m fine.”

  “Let me know if anything happens.”

  Jason watched him walk away with a soft smile, then headed home.

  He cleaned the house quietly, prepping dinner for later. As the sky dimmed outside the window, he put the food aside and waited.

  Eventually, Ashar returned—physically drained, mentally absent. He dropped into a chair and sighed heavily.

  Jason placed food on the table.

  They ate in quiet at first, then talked about their day.

  “I knew something happened. I saw it in your eyes,” Ashar said through a mouthful of dried meat. “Still… you tried to do a good thing. I’m proud of you.”

  Jason looked down, smiling.

  “But for them to do that so openly…” Ashar’s voice trailed off. “That wouldn’t have happened if Gabriella were still around.”

  “You need to get ready for work too, right?”

  Jason jumped to his feet. “Right!”

  He scarfed down the last bite, turned at the door. “I’ll be back soon, Gramps!”

  “Don’t cause trouble!” Ashar called out—but Jason was already gone.

  The red hue of twilight bathed the pleasure district. Guards and girls moved in and out of the glowing entrance to the Whispering Night.

  Jason stepped inside. A girl at the entrance greeted him.

  “Ready to clean some tables?”

  “Absolutely.”

  The lounge still held its charm—draped fabrics, flickering lanterns, and faded perfume in the air—but the grandeur had faded. There were fewer girls now, fewer guests, and more laughter born of routine than excitement. He scrubbed tables for the next hour, paid just enough for half a loaf of bread.

  Once finished, he waved goodbye and walked home. Suddenly stopping in his tracks. He heard a rhythmic noise coming from far away, the sound of wings brushing in the wind. He walked up a staircase on the outside of one of the buildings, the same one Ashar once stood.

  An awe-inspiring view formed before his eyes.

  The sun had nearly set, casting the sky in deep hues of orange and crimson, while the stars began to pierce the darkening veil above. Dust swirled in the fading light, and across the horizon, a vast silhouette soared — a creature Jason had only glimpsed in stories and half-seen shadows.

  The Guardian.

  Its wings stretched impossibly wide, like sails carved from starlight. But as it flew, tendrils trailed behind its wings — long, ribbon-like filaments that curled and shimmered in the air, swaying with each silent beat. They moved as if in their own rhythm, neither feather nor flesh, like strands of some deeper energy woven into its form.

  Smaller creatures glided in its slipstream, following with reverence.

  Jason stood frozen, the noise of the town below fading into silence. He had heard stories of the Guardian — that it had once been larger, that it had grown thin and wounded from years of human attacks.

  As it passed, its trailing filaments caught the last rays of sunlight, casting a dim trail of flickering stars in its wake. Jason stared, breath held, watching until it vanished past the horizon.

  For a moment, the world felt still.

  The door creaked open silently. Ashar had already lost his battle with sleep.

  Jason crawled onto the cot beside him, lay still.

  He whispered, “Goodnight.”

  On the other side, Ashar still lay awake, his mind turning over thoughts that made his chest tighten with fear. He turned to his side, hoping to catch a few hours of rest—he had a feeling he would need it tomorrow.