Under the dull streetlights, the boy walked quietly to the far end of the dirt alley.
As he neared the end of the old concrete walls, buried in the darkness, he discovered a black plastic bag left among the debris.
He took a moment to glance around before moving closer. He quickly untied the chain that sealed the package.
But the moment he opened it, he regretted his decision.
The inside was a horrible mix of flesh, blood, intestines, and scattered human body parts.
He scrunched up his nose and swiftly snapped the chain tight.
"Fuckin' bastards," he cursed, closing his nose against the smell. "Why do they have to dump this mess here? Can't they toss it somewhere else in this large ass district?"
Looking at the black plastic bag, he muttered, "Anyways, it seems this poor bastard also got every useful organ in his body taken already," he said flatly, showing no remorse for the dead.
He reasoned that this was probably another victim. Someone had been duped or taken advantage of, and noted that this was the tenth body bag he'd discovered this month.
The common thing among them was that every body part of value or sellable item was already removed.
But, what can someone expect from the outskirts?
"Well, by midnight, this bag will be taken by that 'thing' anyway," he added, as if it were just another part of his grim routine.
After giving the plastic bag one last look, he moved on, shoving his plastic bag into a narrow crack between the slabs.
Then, crouching low, he slipped through the gap himself. His thin frame made it easy, though the rough edges scraped against his already dirt-streaked clothes.
Once inside, he straightened, brushing off the dust clinging to him before retrieving the plastic bag. Finally, he lifted his gaze to the looming structure before him.
The half-finished, multi-story construction site looked like a skeletal ruin in the dark. Years of neglect had stripped it of any purpose.
Exposed steel beams protruded like rusted ribs, their edges eroded by time and weather. Cracked concrete pillars, originally supposed to sustain a healthy structure, now have ice-covered ivy and weeds growing up their surfaces.
As the boy gazed at the incomplete structure, he sighed, his stiff shoulders finally unwinding.
But he snarled quickly as the pain finally got to him. Trying to ignore it, he approached the facility and entered by putting his backpack inside and entering through a casing with no windows.
Inside, he was met with utter darkness, but he didn't mind. His hands reached into his pocket to take out a small flashlight.
He turned it on, stuck it in his mouth, and began ascending the half-finished steps, each step sending jolts of pain through his wrecked body. His ribs ached from bruises, and the cuts on his arms throbbed occasionally.
The chill of the snow piercing through his tattered garments exacerbated discomfort of his injuries.
The plastic bag was securely gripped in one hand, his fingers rigid from the cold and dried blood on his skin. His body felt heavy, but he carried on, ignoring the tremors in his limbs.
Snow fell harder now, with tiny flakes drifting in from the unfinished floors' open gaps, landing on his shoulders, in his hair, and sticking to his pale face.
The wind howled through the skeletal structure, biting through the spaces between the exposed steel beams.
He stumbled on some ice and caught himself against a rusted railing, cursing under his breath as he continued climbing.
The stairs were crumbling beneath him, with bits of concrete missing in places, leaving jagged edges that threatened to tear through his shoes.
The exposed framework stretched out in front of him, empty and hollow, like the inside of a long-dead machine.
He reached the middle floor, his legs shaky as he finally straightened up, his breath coming out in ragged clouds.
He moved toward a steel bucket and noticed it was half filled with ice.
Gripping the handle, he carried it toward a room closed off by tin sheets.
Placing the bucket on the floor, he hefted the sheets aside until he could slip inside.
Once in the room, he walked over to a rusted lamp and switched it on. Just in an instant the space was bathed in harsh light.
Somehow, this room has become his shelter, a temporary home constructed piece by piece from the remains of the abandoned construction site.
He had removed shattered debris and organised what he could rescue from the abandoned stuff. A worn mattress, a few old blankets, and a patchwork of scavenged things used as furniture.
In one corner, he had built a little table out of splintered wood, while in another, a pile of old newspapers and ragged garments provided a barrier against the chill.
The tin sheets he had used to close the entrance now served as insulation, keeping out the cold wind that howled through the halls of the old building.
He paced the bucket near what he called his makeshift bed before walking to a broken mirror propped against a wall. In the reflection, he saw his beaten face.
Placing a hand on the cracked surface, he hissed in pain, "Those bastards, they surely did a number on me."
With a weary sigh, he began to strip off the layers of his soiled clothes, preparing to clean up and settle in for another night in his refuge.
He pulled off his coat and shirt and his hand brushed against something firm at the border of his ragged pants.
He curled his fingers around it and drew a sheathed dagger. It was a compact weapon, the blade no longer than his forearm, and the sheath was fashioned of faded black leather with faint, virtually erased inscriptions.
He gripped the hilt and drew it free. The blade shone dimly in the dim light. It was dark metallic, nearly black, with an odd gloss that caught even the faintest glow.
Unknown, engravings went over its surface from tip to hilt, curving like a beautiful script.
The engravings were deep and exact, making the weapon appear more like an artefact than a plain weapon.
As he approached the bed, he mumbled, "Heat."
At once, the engravings on the blade came to life, glowing red from the tip down to the hilt's edge where the markings ended.
A slow hum ran along its surface, as if the weapon itself breathed with warmth.
Without hesitation, he stabbed the dagger into the metallic bucket, burying its heated blade within the ice.
*Swishh*
In mere seconds, the ice melted away, and steam rose in thick curls as the water turned warm.
Satisfied, he pulled the dagger out, watching as the glow faded back into its dark metallic sheen. He wiped it clean with a cloth before sliding it back into its sheath.
This dagger was something he had purchased at a cheap price from the market.
The rotund seller hadn't even known the staggering value of the item he'd just sold for hundred credits.
It was hilarious, If the seller knew its true worth, he wouldn't have sold it for his entire fortune.
Well, who could even blame him?
To any other person, the dagger might have seemed rusty and old, but to the boy, it was worth several times more than any other item he had encountered in his wretched life.
As for how he knew the dagger's real worth…
He has an uncanny ability to sense danger ahead of time as well as precious items among the scraps—a skill that had proven invaluable in his miserable, brief life.
After purchasing it, he polished the dagger with oil, and it became sharp. He subsequently found its mysterious capacity to heat up when he unintentionally said "heat" while using it to cut through tin.
The rest is history.
What? He should have used this dagger against Jimmy and his goons in the first place?
Nope, that would have been stupid.
What if another bastard witnessed him using his dagger?
Perhaps the next day, his corpse would have been placed in a plastic bag.
Also, despite his familiarity with death, he was not a murderer.
…..Not yet.
But, yes, if his life ever truly came under threat, he wouldn't hesitate to rip the bastards apart.
For now, his dirty hands were clean, which was quite an amusing irony.
Sitting on the bed, he placed the dagger beside him and reached for the warm water. He grabbed a ragged but clean cloth and started wiping his wounds.
The flickering light cast uneven shadows as he worked, the damp cloth pressing against cuts and bruises, sending sharp stings through his body.
He pulled out a small, cracked hand mirror and angled it to check his face. His nose was swollen, a deep bruise forming along his cheekbone.
Dried blood had crusted over the cut on his brow.
He clicked his tongue in annoyance and wiped it clean, wincing when the scab peeled off.
His gaze moved lower. His stomach was covered in red and blue splotches, some darker than others.
But his eyes lingered on his chest.
The blistered skin there looked worse than before—raw, uneven patches stretching across his ribs.
Clicking open a small tin which was inside the polythene bag, he scooped out some medicinal lotion and smeared it over the burns.
He sucked in a sharp breath, the cool ointment doing little to dull the pain at first.
He clenched his jaw and waited for the sting to fade before pulling out another bottle. Pouring a small amount of antiseptic onto a cloth, he pressed it to the worst of his cuts, hissing as it burned.
Once he finished, he tossed the used cloth aside, reached for a set of spare clothes, and changed into them.
They weren't much cleaner, but at least they weren't damp with sweat and dirt.
With that done, he took some painkillers and lay back on his makeshift bed, his body still aching, but at least the pain was manageable now.
He didn't turn off the lamp as darkness felt suffocating to him.
With that he fell into sleep's embrace.
—----
[Midnight]
While sleeping in the dimly lit room, the boy's body stiffened up.
His breathing became ragged, and his fingers trembled against the scratchy fabric of his bed.
Then, without warning, he began to toss and turn, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cold weather.
His hand grasped his chest as a deep, searing agony ripped through him, eliciting a cry from his lips. His body jumped up. His eyes sprung up, pupils dilated as he fought for air, his lungs burning as if he had just emerged from a drowning.
"..."
For a few moments, he remained motionless, staring at his trembling hand.
The cold air nipped at his moist skin, but he scarcely noticed. Then his expression clouded. His fingers curled around his palm, steadying himself as he muttered under his breath,
"Something is here."
Without hesitation, he pushed himself off the bed, grabbed his dagger, and unsheathed it. The blade caught a faint glint of light as he moved toward the entrance.
He pressed his back against the cold tin sheets, listening.
Then, without a sound, he slipped outside.