Shura walked through the narrowing streets at a steady pace, neither fast nor slow. His fingers brushed the coins in his pocket again.
Heavy. Real.
"Twenty copp…"
"Earned."
The word stayed longer than it should.
Then—
his stomach tightened.
Not pain.
Need.
Hunger.
The street narrowed as stone walls pressed closer around him, the fading light turning warmer near the food stalls lining one side of the road.
Steam drifted into the air above the iron plates while workers stood in small clusters beside the stalls, eating quietly between shifts. Nobody talked much. They were only refueling before returning to work.
Shura stepped closer, slow and careful. The smell hit him immediately—salt, oil, heat—and his body reacted before his mind could.
"First time here?"
The voice came from the stall owner, rough but casual. Shura looked up to find the man already watching him, not curious, just used to seeing people like this.
"…Yeah."
"What you want?"
Shura hesitated for a moment before asking quietly, "…How much?"
"Two copp," the man replied. "Bread. Soup. Enough to stand."
Shura froze briefly and counted in silence.
Sixty-three left after this.
He nodded once.
"…One."
The man held out his hand and waited. Shura placed the coins into it slowly, reluctant to let them go even after deciding to spend them.
The stall owner glanced at the money, then at Shura himself. "Hold it tight," he said while wrapping the food. "Street eats faster than you do."
Shura didn't answer, but he understood.
He stepped aside and leaned against the wall before starting to eat. The food was hot and simple, but every bite carried weight.
Cost. Meaning.
Shura glanced sideways at one of the nearby workers, an older man with grease-stained clothes. The worker wasn't even looking at him when he spoke.
"…Yeah."
"Don't count it too much," the man said.
"It disappears faster that way."
A small pause.
"…You worked for it?"
Shura nodded once.
The man grunted.
"Then eat properly. Don't chew like you're apologizing."
Shura slowed his chewing slightly and adjusted to their pace, quietly watching the workers around him. They moved with an almost practiced rhythm—eat, breathe, return to work.
No wasted motion.
"…Stable," he whispered.
For a moment—
it felt possible.
Then—
a shadow shifted.
"New."
Shura didn't look up immediately.
"Nice coat for this place."
Another voice came from closer this time, forcing Shura to finally look up. Two men stood nearby with loose stances and sharp, watchful eyes.
Hunters.
Shura swallowed and finished his bite before speaking.
"…Something like that."
They stepped closer.
Too close.
One sniffed lightly.
"Not from here."
The other smirked.
"Yeah. Hands are still clean ."
A pause.
"Show us what you've got."
Silence settled between them while Shura remained completely still, though his mind moved quickly through the possibilities. Fight? Risky. Run? Pointless. Talking would only waste time.
None of the options were good.
"…Not yours," Shura said quietly.
One of them smiled.
Not amused.
"Everything's ours here."
A hand moved.
Toward his coat.
Shura exhaled.
"…Right."
Shura slipped his hand inside his coat slowly and deliberately. The stall owner glanced over once without interfering, though he didn't look away either.
Not at the coins.
At the other weight hidden beneath them.
Cold. Solid.
Shura pulled out the Black Iron Token and simply showed it. He didn't raise it or announce it.
The silence was immediate.
The man's hand stopped midair as his eyes dropped to the token, then slowly lifted back to Shura. Different now.
"…Where did you get that?"
Shura didn't answer.
Didn't need to.
The second man stepped back.
Just one step.
Enough.
"…You should've shown that first," he muttered.
Tone changed.
Careful now.
Measured.
"No trouble," the first added quickly.
A beat.
They stepped away.
Not rushed.
But done.
Gone.
The worker nearby let out a quiet breath.
"…Lucky."
Shura glanced at him.
"Not luck," the man said.
"That's borrowed safety."
Shura looked at the token.
Still in his hand.
Cold.
Heavier than before.
"…What is this?" Shura asked quietly.
The worker wiped his hands.
"Authority," he said.
"Or the illusion of it."
Shura's grip tightened slightly before he slipped the token back inside his coat, closer this time, resting near his ribs.
Protected.
He looked down at the empty wrapping in his hand. Food gone. Money reduced. Nothing else had changed.
Around him, the street kept moving.
The workers didn't care.
"…Not safe," he said quietly.
A step forward.
"…Not yet."
"Kid."
Shura paused.
Looked back.
The stall owner tossed him something.
A small cloth.
"Wipe your face," he said.
"You look like a target."
Shura caught it.
Hesitated.
"…Thanks."
The man only shrugged in response. Shura turned and walked deeper into the narrow streets, his coins feeling lighter while his understanding grew heavier.
Time passed. Not much, but enough for the light to dim and for another kind of hunger to settle inside him.
Shura kept walking at the same steady pace, neither fast nor slow. After a while, he glanced back once toward the wider streets behind him.
The safer ones.
"…I lived there," he murmured.
A pause.
"…Now I don't."
The streets narrowed as he moved deeper.
Stone pressed closer.
Light thinned.
The hum of the city—
distant now.
Here—
it wasn't rhythm.
It was residue.
Shura slowed.
Stopped.
A wooden board hung above a low doorway.
Crooked.
Faded ink.
Rooms. Cheap. No Questions.
He stared at it.
"…Fifteen copp?"
A breath.
"…per month."
His fingers brushed the coins in his pocket.
Fifteen.
Half gone.
Silence.
Then—
he stepped inside.
A narrow hall.
Low ceiling.
Oil lamps burned weak along the walls.
Wood creaked under every step.
Not broken—
just tired.
Behind a small counter—
a man.
Old.
Thin.
Eyes too sharp.
He didn't look up.
"…Room?" he asked.
Shura paused.
"…You already knew."
The man's lips twitched slightly.
"…Everyone who stops at the door needs one."
Shura stepped closer.
"…How much?"
Now the man looked up.
Quick scan.
Clothes.
Posture.
Hands.
Clean.
"…Fifteen copp," he said.
A pause.
"…A month."
Shura opened his palm.
Coins.
Dull.
Real.
The man didn't take them.
"…Rules," he said.
One finger tapped the wood.
"No noise."
"Break nothing."
"Pay first."
A pause.
"No protection."
Shura's eyes lifted slightly.
The man met them.
"If someone drags you out at night—"
A small shrug.
"I didn't hear it."
Silence.
Shura nodded.
"…Fair."
He pushed the coins forward.
They scraped softly.
Heavy sound.
The man picked them up.
One by one.
Checking.
"…New?" the man asked casually.
Shura didn't answer immediately.
"…Yes."
"Alone?"
"…Yes."
The man gave a faint, humorless breath.
"Then listen carefully."
A pause.
"Lock the door."
"Even if you think you're alone."
Shura didn't react.
But he remembered it.
The man reached below the counter.
Pulled out a key.
Iron.
Rough.
Wrapped with a thin strip of cloth.
"Upstairs."
"End of the hall."
"Left."
He placed it down.
Shura looked at it.
Didn't take it immediately.
"…This is mine?"
The man snorted.
"…For a month."
A pause.
"After that—"
He leaned back slightly.
"You're not even a memory."
Shura picked up the key.
Cold.
Lighter than the token.
But—
strangely heavier.
He turned.
Walked toward the stairs.
Each step creaked.
Announcing him.
No hiding here.
Halfway up—
he paused.
His eyes shifted.
The walls.
The beams.
Wood.
Shura glanced back.
The old man hadn't moved.
Shura said nothing.
But the thought stayed.
The hallway above—
worse.
Narrower.
Darker.
Doors lined both sides.
Some closed.
Some slightly open.
Eyes.
Watching.
Not curious—
measuring.
One voice slipped out from a half-open door.
"…Don't leave your shoes outside."
Another voice, quieter—
A faint chuckle followed.
Then silence again.
Shura didn't react.
Didn't slow.
Didn't look back.
End of the hall.
Left side.
He stopped.
Door.
Plain.
Scratched.
He inserted the key.
Paused.
Then—
click.
The sound felt…
final.
He pushed it open.
The room—
small.
A bed.
Bare frame.
Thin mattress.
A table.
Uneven.
A lamp.
Half-burnt oil.
A few books.
Old.
Left behind.
A window—
cracked.
Facing another wall.
No view.
Just distance.
Shura stepped inside.
Closed the door.
Soft sound.
But it cut the world away.
Silence.
Real silence.
He stood there.
A moment.
Then—
he placed his coat down.
Carefully.
Folded.
Precise.
Coins—
on the table.
The Knight's token—
beside them.
Then—
he sat.
The bed creaked.
Complained.
Accepted him anyway.
He leaned back.
Looked up.
The ceiling—
cracked lines.
Like maps.
"…Fifteen copp…"
A pause.
"…This is mine."
Just the faint hum of the city—
far away now.
He lifted his hand.
Placed it on his chest.
This time—
he felt it.
Slow.
Heavy.
Real.
His heartbeat.
Not the city's.
A breath left him.
Long.
Tired.
"…Scumbag," he whispered.
A small laugh followed.
Dry.
Uneven.
"You said that right."
He lifted his hand.
Stared at it.
"…You're the reason I'm still scared to make friends."
A pause.
"…Bastard."
Silence answered.
He lay back fully.
Didn't close his eyes immediately.
The room didn't comfort him.
Didn't reject him.
It simply—
allowed him.
"…First night," he murmured.
Then—
finally—
he rested