Boom.
A gunshot split the silence.
Keiran barely registered the sound before agony exploded through his leg. His knee buckled, his body crumbling onto the damp cobblestone. The shock hit first—a numb, freezing sensation—before the pain roared in, burning, searing through his nerves.
His fingers twitched against the cold ground, his breath ragged. He wanted to move, to run, but his body refused. His vision blurred, the world spinning around him as his ears rang with the fading echo of the gunshot.
Then, just as suddenly as the pain came, darkness swallowed him whole.
Something skittered.
A rustle. The wet squelch of something crawling. The sound of tiny claws against wood.
Keiran's eyes snapped open.
Darkness. Deep, suffocating, endless, hollowed.
His breath came in short, shallow gasps. A dull ache pounded in his skull, and for a moment, he couldn't tell if he was awake or trapped in some fever dream. His limbs felt leaden, his fingers stiff, but as sensation returned, a sharper pain flared—his leg. Wounded. Still fresh.
Then he heard it.
Soft. Fragile. The muffled cries of children.
Keiran stiffened. The sounds—whimpering, sniffling, hushed sobs—surrounded him, filling the air like ghosts mourning their fate. He strained his eyes, but there was nothing. No shapes. No movement. Just the cries of those too weak, too broken, to scream any louder.
He tried to move his hands, but cold metal bit into his skin. Handcuffs. Tight. Unforgiving.
Keiran gritted his teeth. He yanked, twisted—useless. The more he struggled, the deeper they cut into his wrists. He moved his legs, and there it was—bars. Rough, rusted iron pressed against his skin.
He was in a cage.
And it was moving.
The floor beneath him trembled, rocking back and forth with each jolt, each uneven bump. It wasn't a room, wasn't a cell in some prison. It was worse.
His stomach twisted.
Then—BANG.
A violent jolt sent him sprawling, his head colliding with the bars with a sickening crack. Stars burst behind his eyelids, pain splitting through his skull. His body slumped, dazed, reeling.
Then, suddenly—light.
A blinding sliver of it seared through the darkness, forcing him to squeeze his eyes shut.
Someone had pulled something away. A tarp? A blanket? He didn't know. But the light—after what felt like an eternity in darkness—stabbed into his skull like needles.
As his vision adjusted, the world beyond the bars came into focus.
And what he saw made his blood run cold.
Cages.
Row after row of them, stacked like crates, filled with children.
Some huddled in corners, clutching their knees, rocking in silence. Others lay flat, motionless, their eyes void of light. Some whimpered, their faces buried in their hands, too weak to shed more tears.
Hopeless. Broken.
A sickness curled in Keiran's stomach. He felt it in the air—the weight of despair.
Then—a voice.
"Hmph."
Keiran turned his head sluggishly.
A man loomed just outside his cage, peering in with little more than mild curiosity. His heavy black coat draped over his broad frame, his hat casting a shadow over his face. His cracked lips twisted into something between a scowl and boredom.
Another man stood beside him, dressed the same. Their voices were low, disinterested, their words scraping against Keiran's ears.
"Another ordinary one," the first man muttered, barely sparing him a glance. "Probably won't fetch much profit."
Keiran's blood turned to ice.
Profit?
The second man grunted. "Should we just kill him?"
Keiran's heart slammed against his ribs.
The first man shrugged. "No. Leave it. At least he'll fetch something instead of nothing. No one's buying a dead body."
They didn't care.
To them, he wasn't a person. He was weight. Cargo. A number in some twisted transaction.
Their footsteps faded as they walked away. Keiran let out a slow breath, but the tightness in his chest didn't fade.
Around him, the soft cries continued.
He had to escape.
A metallic creak.
The door of his cage swung open.
A woman stepped into the dim light.
She was different from the men—not draped in black, not faceless under a wide-brimmed hat. Instead, she wore a tattered dress, stained and faded, with a fraying shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Her hands were rough, calloused from labor, her hair a tangled mess tied back beneath a dirty cloth.
She wasn't cruel.
But she wasn't kind either.
Without a word, she tossed a plate onto Keiran's lap—a dented tin dish with a small scoop of rice and thin, cloudy soup.
The smell barely existed.
Cold. Tasteless. But hunger gnawed at his insides, so he picked up a spoon and forced it down.
Then, with the same cold efficiency, she reached down and unlocked his handcuffs.
Keiran's heart pounded. His wrists throbbed, red and raw—but he barely noticed. His mind was already racing.
His hands were free.
This was his chance.
But before he could move—clink.
Cold iron closed around his ankle.She had chained him to the cage.
His jaw tightened. Helpless. Again.
The woman shut the cage door and left without a glance.
Keiran clenched his fists. The soup churned in his stomach.
He needed a plan.
Then—movement.
A cage beside him.
A boy.
Same tattered clothes. Same bruised wrists. Same emptiness in his face.
But there was something different about him.
His hair—white as snow.
His eyes—black as midnight.
Keiran watched as the boy finished his food, setting the plate aside with slow, deliberate movements. Not rushed. Not desperate.
Then, carefully, he glanced around.
A moment passed.
Then—crack.
Keiran flinched.
The boy had broken his own finger.
A flicker of pain crossed his face, but just as quickly, it vanished. Cold. Unshaken.
With the joint dislocated, his wrist slipped effortlessly through the cuff.
Then, just as calmly, he tore a strip from his ragged shirt, reset the bone with a quiet pop, and wrapped his hand tightly.
Keiran stared.
For the first time since waking in this hellhole—he felt something other than fear.
He felt curiosity.
Then—a screech.
The entire wagon jolted.
Keiran's plate tipped, soup splashing onto his lap, but he barely noticed.
Because to his right—
The white-haired boy was moving.
A sharp, metallic snap rang through the air.
Keiran turned, just in time to see the boy slam his cuffs against the floor. Once. Twice.
Then—crack.
One of the links broke.
The boy didn't hesitate.
He grabbed the jagged shard of metal, tucked it into his tattered pants, and slipped his wrists back into the broken cuffs.
A perfect illusion.
Keiran's pulse quickened.
Then—the wagon doors groaned open.
Cold air rushed in.
The men were back.
And the white-haired boy was ready.
The sudden gust of cold air bit into Keiran's skin as the heavy doors of the truck groaned open. For the first time since waking up in the darkness, he saw the outside world. And it was nothing like he expected.
A massive factory loomed in the distance, its towering smokestacks vomiting thick, black smoke into the sky. The air smelled of metal, oil, and burning—something industrial, something suffocating. Around it, a bleak town stretched into the horizon, its streets lined with ramshackle buildings, dull and lifeless. The people that walked through them were just as drained—workers in tattered uniforms, their backs hunched, their movements mechanical, as if life had long since been beaten out of them.
Then the cages started moving.
A sharp creak rang out as one of the metal crates was lifted, carried like a dog's cage by rough hands. The child inside whimpered, curling into themselves as the bars rattled with each step. Another cage followed, then another, each being passed down to waiting workers like cargo—no, not like cargo. Like property.
Keiran's pulse pounded in his ears as he felt his own cage shift. Hands gripped the top, hoisting it upward. The sudden movement made his head spin, the blood rushing to his wounded leg sending a fresh jolt of pain through his body. The man carrying him barely noticed—or if he did, he didn't care.
Keiran forced himself to look around as they moved. The factory's massive iron doors loomed ahead, open just enough to reveal the darkness inside. Shadows moved within—workers, guards, people with faces empty of anything human. Some carried tools, some carried chains. And then there were the others—the ones that weren't working. Children. Just like him.
His breath hitched.
Then—something else caught his eye.
A group of men were unloading various items from the truck. Heavy crates filled with weapons, sacks of stolen goods, anything that held value. But among them, one thing stood out.
The black coat.
It was draped over a man's arm, folded carelessly, its fabric slightly torn from wear. But Keiran knew it instantly. His coat. Or rather—the coat he had taken. The coat that once belonged to the rich man from before, back when he was nothing more than a petty thief looking for warmth.
His stomach twisted.
That coat—his only shield against the world, the only thing that had given him even a semblance of protection—was just another piece of loot to them. Just another thing to be sold, traded, thrown away. Just like him.
His fingers curled into fists.
He had to escape. Before he became just another nameless body in this place.