Shura walked.
Not fast. Not slow.
Just… forward.
His fingers brushed his pocket.
Coins.
Heavy. Real.
"Twenty copp…"
A pause.
"Earned."
The word stayed longer than it should.
Then—
his stomach tightened.
Not pain.
Need.
Hunger.
Shura stopped.
Looked around.
The street had narrowed.
Stone pressed closer.
Light dimmer.
Warmer.
Food stalls lined one side.
Iron plates.
Steam rising.
Workers stood in clusters.
Eating.
Not talking much.
Just… refueling.
Shura stepped closer.
Slow. Careful.
The smell hit him.
Salt.
Oil.
Heat.
His body reacted before his mind did.
"First time here?"
The voice came from the stall.
Rough. Casual.
Shura looked up.
The owner was already watching him.
Not curious.
Just… used to this.
"…Yeah."
"What you want?"
Shura hesitated.
"…How much?"
"Two copp."
A pause.
"Bread. Soup. Enough to stand."
Shura froze for a second.
Counted silently.
Sixty-three left… after this.
He nodded.
"…One."
The man held out his hand.
Waiting.
Shura placed the coins.
Slow.
Reluctant.
The stall owner glanced at them.
Then at Shura.
"Hold it tight," he said while wrapping the food.
"Street eats faster than you do."
Shura didn't respond.
But he understood.
He stepped aside.
Leaned against the wall.
He ate.
Hot. Simple.
Every bite—
heavy.
Cost.
Meaning.
Shura glanced sideways.
A worker. Older. Grease-stained.
Not looking at him.
Just speaking.
"…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.
Adjusted.
Watched.
Workers moved in rhythm.
Eat.
Breathe.
Return.
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.
Closer.
Now he looked.
Two men.
Loose stance.
Sharp eyes.
Hunters.
Shura swallowed.
Finished his bite.
"…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.
Shura didn't move.
His mind did.
Fight?
No.
Run?
Pointless.
Talk?
Waste.
"…Not yours," Shura said quietly.
One of them smiled.
Not amused.
"Everything's ours here."
A hand moved.
Toward his coat.
Shura exhaled.
"…Right."
His hand slipped inside his coat.
Slow.
Deliberate.
The stall owner glanced once.
Didn't interfere.
But didn't look away either.
Not the coins.
The other weight.
Cold.
Solid.
Shura pulled it out.
The Black Iron Token.
He didn't raise it.
Didn't announce it.
Just—
showed it.
Silence.
Immediate.
The man's hand stopped mid-air.
His eyes dropped.
Then sharpened again.
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.
A pause.
"Or the illusion of it."
Shura's grip tightened slightly.
He slipped the token back inside.
Closer this time.
Near his ribs.
Protected.
He looked at the empty wrapping.
Food gone.
Money reduced.
Nothing else changed.
The street moved.
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 shrugged.
Shura turned.
Walked deeper into the narrow street.
Coins lighter.
Understanding—
heavier.
Time passed.
Not much.
But enough for the light to dim—
and the hunger to return in a different form.
Shura walked.
Not fast. Not slow.
Just… forward.
He glanced back once.
The wider streets.
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