The shift had ended.
Keiran stepped away from the factory floor, his body screaming from exhaustion, his hands raw and blistered from the ceaseless labor. His muscles ached, his shoulders burned, yet the dull, mechanical rhythm of his work still echoed in his bones.
The scent of oil and sweat clung to him, thick and suffocating, mixing with the metallic tang of rust and the distant acrid stench of smoke. His clothes, damp with grime, felt like they had fused to his skin.
But there was no relief.
The children were gathered like cattle, herded toward the exit gate.
Keiran followed, silent, numb.
His mind drifted in the haze of exhaustion, sluggish, barely registering the movement of his feet against the cold stone floor. Was this another test? Another speech? Another punishment?
The moment they stepped outside, something felt off.
It was getting dark.
The factory's towering smokestacks still bled thick, black fumes into the sky, their ceaseless exhale staining the heavens like rotting wounds. The sun, a dying ember on the horizon, cast long, creeping shadows that stretched like skeletal fingers across the factory yard. The air was dense, humid, the wind carrying the scent of charred metal and distant decay.
Keiran frowned.
Why were they letting them out now?
But he didn't question it.
He simply moved forward.
And then—he saw him.
A man stood waiting at the exit gate.
Tall. Poised. His presence alone seemed to shift the air, commanding attention without a word. His features were sharp, refined—handsome, yet unreadable—as if carved from something colder than flesh, something that had long since abandoned warmth.
But it was his clothing that truly set him apart.
Unlike Armon, he did not flaunt excess, nor did he wear the rags of the factory workers. Instead, his attire rested in an unsettling middle ground—plain, yet intentional.
A black button-up shirt, fitted but unassuming, hugged his lean frame. Over his left shoulder, a cape-like garment draped down, concealing his entire arm, the fabric shifting subtly with the breeze. His right hand remained exposed, resting lazily at his side—casual, almost indifferent.
His pants were simple, neither wealthy nor worn, tailored to fit, and his boots—polished brown leather, dirtied just enough to suggest frequent use—spoke of a man who tread these grounds often, who walked among both the powerful and the powerless.
A wide-brimmed hat sat atop his head, tilted slightly, shadowing his gaze.
Keiran barely spared him more than a glance.
And then, the man spoke.
A voice smooth as silk, calm as still water.
"Hello, my dear children."
The words slithered through the air, too soft, too kind for a place like this.
Keiran's fingers curled slightly.
"From today onward, after your work in the factory is finished, you will be with me."
The silence that followed was thick, suffocating.
Keiran didn't react.
He only stared.
And in that moment, for the first time since stepping into this place, a new question took root in his mind.
Where are we being taken now?
The man smiled—soft, inviting, practiced.
"Come now, no need to fear. I won't harm any of you. Just follow me."
His voice held an unhurried ease, a deceptive lightness that did not belong in a place like this. Without another word, he turned, his cape shifting as he walked.
The children hesitated.
Then, as if pulled by an unseen thread, they followed.
Keiran moved with them, his body still weighed down by exhaustion, his mind thick with fog. He wasn't thinking. Just walking.
The factory gates loomed behind them as they stepped beyond its threshold.
And then, Keiran saw it.
The town.
He had glimpsed it before, through the cracks in the iron bars, past the endless steam and smoke—a place that had once seemed like a distant salvation.
Now, standing at its edge, he knew.
It was just another cage.
The entrance stretched wide, large enough to accommodate carts, shipments, and the lifeless march of workers. The ground beneath their feet shifted from dirt to weathered stone, the rough texture uneven beneath his boots. Lanterns lined the streets, flickering dimly, their light casting long, jagged shadows against the brick walls.
Keiran's eyes darted across the town, searching.
And that was when he noticed it.
Something was wrong.
The town was not empty. People stood in the streets—civilians, workers, even families. Some hovered near shop entrances, others passed by with heavy bags slung over their shoulders.
But there was no sound.
No chatter. No calls of merchants selling their wares. No idle laughter.
Just the quiet shuffle of footsteps, the occasional rustle of cloth.
The air was thick with something he could not name.
Something heavy.
Keiran's hands curled into fists.
He had thought—if he ever escaped the factory, if he ever reached the town—he'd be free.
But this was not freedom.
This was another extension of Armon's rule.
A place of submission.
The realization settled deep in his bones, cold and suffocating.
There was nowhere to run.
The man leading them finally stopped.
Then, he turned, and with a practiced grace, he removed his hat.
Holding it lightly in his left hand, he bowed.
It was not a deep, theatrical gesture. No exaggerated flourishes, no excessive politeness.
It was controlled. Measured.
The kind of bow that belonged to a man who knew exactly how much attention to command.
Then, lifting his head slightly, he spoke.
"My name is Asheron, and I will be your watcher outside the factory."
Keiran barely reacted.
"Don't misunderstand," Asheron continued, slipping his hat back onto his head with a smooth, fluid motion. "I won't be watching you all the time—I'm no creep. Instead, think of me as a guide. Someone who will teach you about this place and help you serve Mister Armon better."
The way he said it—so casual, so effortless—twisted something in Keiran's stomach.
Serve Armon better.
The words hung in the air like a noose.
Then, Asheron smiled.
"Now, I need a leader."
A pause.
"Who will it be?"
Silence.
Keiran barely paid attention. His mind was still lingering on the town, on the weight pressing against his skull, on the fact that there was no escape.
Then, movement.
Keiran blinked.
He felt eyes shift toward him.
Then—fingers.
One by one, the children pointed at him.
Keiran's head lifted slightly, confusion flickering through the haze of exhaustion.
Had he missed something?
Asheron's gaze locked onto his.
Unwavering.
Then, with the faintest tilt of his head, he murmured:
"Very well, then."
He took a step forward.
Keiran did not flinch.
His expression did not change. His posture was still—not stiff, not weak. Just... empty.
"Mister... may I ask your name?"
The night air pressed against Keiran's skin, thick with iron and oil, with the weight of unseen chains.
His lips parted, voice calm, detached.
"Keiran."
The name lingered between them.
Then, Asheron smiled.
And beneath the shadow of his wide-brimmed hat—
Keiran saw the smirk that no one else did.
Asheron took a step forward, gesturing with an open palm.
"Step forward, Mister Keiran."
Keiran did.
The night air was thick, the scent of iron and oil lingering in his lungs—a reminder of where they had come from. He didn't react to it. Didn't react to anything. He was running on autopilot, doing what was expected of him.
Asheron's lips curled slightly at the corners.
"You may address me as Mister Asheron, or simply 'Mentor.' Whichever you prefer."
Then, with a flick of his wrist, he pointed toward a building ahead.
It stood modestly sized, neither grand nor decayed. A structure of dark stone and aged wood, with rows of apartments lined side by side and stacked on top of each other like compartments of a machine. The windows were small, some emitting a faint yellow glow, others swallowed by the night.
As they approached, their footsteps echoed against the cobblestone path.
At the entrance, Asheron stopped.
"This," he said, turning to face them, "will be your home."
His voice was warm, almost inviting—but it meant nothing.
Home.
The word felt hollow.
Keiran didn't react.
"After you finish your work at the factory, you will return here," Asheron continued. "Each apartment's rent is 20 cresis a month, which will leave you with 80 to spend as you see fit. I will have no part in those transactions. Your money, your choices."
Keiran stared up at the building, taking it in.
A place to stay. A place to sleep.
It didn't mean he was free.
"While you live in this town, you may do as you please," Asheron continued smoothly. "Shop, explore—whatever suits you. I will be staying in Room 1 for the next year, so should you require guidance, you may knock on my door, and I shall provide."
His tone was almost too rehearsed, too polished.
"However," he added, "when your shift time arrives, go to the town gate and state the number on your wrist to the guards. They will transport you to the factory for your work."
He stepped aside, gesturing toward a small wooden table near the entrance.
On it lay several keys.
"Now, go. Choose a key. Settle in. In half an hour, return here for dinner."
The children moved at once, silent and obedient.
Keiran watched as they each picked up a key, disappearing into the building one by one.
Soon, he was the only one left.
His gaze flickered toward the table.
Only one key remained.
Keiran exhaled quietly. Without a word, he took the key.
As he turned toward the entrance, his eyes flickered up—meeting Asheron's.
He hesitated. Then, almost mechanically, he muttered:
"Thank you."
Asheron's smirk deepened slightly.
"No problem, Mister Keiran. Now, if you may."
The apartment was small, but functional.
To his right, a door to the bathroom, slightly ajar, revealing a cracked mirror and a rusted pipe. The air carried the faint scent of damp stone.
To his left, a single bed pressed against the wall beneath a small window. The mattress was thin, the sheets dull, but it was a bed nonetheless.
Beside the bed stood a wooden table, old but sturdy, accompanied by a single chair.
Against the far wall, another small table stood near the entrance, its surface empty save for a single, flickering candle.
A few paintings hung on the walls—landscapes, faded with time. They felt out of place, as if they had been put there not for comfort, but to fill the emptiness.
Keiran didn't care.
He sat on the edge of the bed, his hands resting against his knees. His eyes flicked to the clock on the wall.
8:00 PM.
Time to eat.
He stood.
Without a second thought, he walked out the door.
The hall was dimly lit, the glow of oil lanterns casting long shadows against the walls.
The scent of food lingered in the air—a faint promise of sustenance, but nothing warm, nothing comforting.
Keiran moved toward the counter, took his meal, and muttered a quiet thanks to the woman working there.
Then, tray in hand, he turned.
His eyes flickered toward the farthest corner of the room.
There, seated alone, was Asheron.
His posture was relaxed, yet precise. One hand held a fork, the other resting lightly on the table. He ate slowly, methodically.
Keiran hesitated—then walked over.
He placed his tray down and sat.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then, Asheron lifted his gaze.
His lips curled slightly.
"You're the first one here, Mister Keiran."
A pause.
"Any questions?"
His tone was knowing.
Keiran glanced at him, picking up his own fork.
Then, calmly, he replied:
"Can't a boy eat if he's hungry?"
A beat of silence.
Then, Keiran continued, his voice steady.
"But you're right. I do have a question."
He met Asheron's gaze.
"Who are you, Mister Asheron?"