The man led Cain through a backstreet path that smelled like engine oil and piss. No names. No words. Just a look over the shoulder every few seconds, like he expected Cain to vanish.
Cain didn't speak. He followed.
They stopped at a chainlink gate sealed with a rusted hook. The man kicked it once. It groaned open.
Beyond it, a long slope dropped into a half-collapsed parking structure. The ceiling hung low like a dying throat. Red bulbs buzzed along the corners, casting the whole place in a dull, blood-colored haze. The sound of rain vanished behind them. Down here, it was quiet. Still. Too quiet.
Cain stepped through, pipe still strapped to his back with a strip of cloth. His ribs ached. The fight earlier had opened something deep inside. Maybe bone. Maybe memory. He ignored it.
They passed broken-down cars stacked like bones. Spray tags covered every wall gang symbols layered over each other. One stood out: the crowned rat.
Guttercrew.
The man stopped at a line of yellow hazard tape stretched between two concrete beams. "Beyond here," he said, "you earn it."
Cain stepped past it without waiting.
Ahead, a pit had been carved into the center of the garage floor maybe an old maintenance trench widened over time. Bleachers made from scrap steel overlooked the sunken ground. Around a dozen figures sat on them some smoking, others sharpening knives or drinking from dented flasks.
A wiry man in a leather vest stood at the edge of the pit. No smile. Just a nod.
"You're the stray?" he asked.
Cain didn't answer.
"Good. That means you're ready."
Two others dropped into the pit behind him. Young, fast-looking. One had gloves with metal studs. The other rolled his neck like a boxer about to warm up.
Then a third jumped in. Thick neck. Broken nose. Tattooed arms.
Cain didn't blink.
Leather Vest pointed. "Three minutes. Stay standing. You walk out."
No signal. No bell. Just motion.
Stud-Gloves came first fast and straight. Cain ducked left, let the punch pass by, and slammed an elbow into the kid's ribs. It didn't drop him. The other one closed the gap with a flying knee. Cain took it on the shoulder and twisted, letting it roll through instead of hitting square. His ankle slid in blood on the floor, but he caught himself.
The big one came last. No finesse. Just power.
Cain raised the pipe. Swung low. Hit shin. Bone.
Big one grunted, dropped to a knee.
Cain pivoted behind him, but not fast enough Stud-Gloves wrapped an arm around Cain's throat.
He felt it. The choke.
Eli's voice flared again. Screaming now.
"Don't kill him! Don't, you don't have to!"
Cain shoved the voice down like a fist through water. His lungs screamed.
He twisted his hips and snapped the back of his head into the kid's nose. Crunch. The grip loosened. Cain dropped low, slammed the end of the pipe into the side of the kid's knee. Then again and again.
The leather vest said nothing neither did the crew. Just silent, sharp eyes tracking every motion.
The third kid moved again. Still breathing. Not unconscious. But not getting up either.
Cain limped a step back. Pipe lowered, blood on his shirt. One of his hands wouldn't close right. His breath came fast.
He didn't kill them.
The System didn't ping.
The timer didn't change.
But nobody stepped in.
Leather Vest nodded. "Enough."
Cain dropped the pipe. Let it clatter on the floor.
The crew in the stands murmured. Not cheers. Just quiet approval. Or interest. Or hunger. Hard to tell.
Leather Vest stepped into the pit. Handed Cain a stained armband with a faded rat symbol on it.
"You're a Runner now. That gets you a mattress and one free meal."
Cain took it.
"Tomorrow, you get your first real job. Don't bleed on my floor before then."
Cain gave a small nod. Nothing more.
The leather man turned to leave.
Cain glanced back at the three others in the pit. One groaning. One knocked out cold. One staring up at the ceiling like he'd seen something he couldn't name.
None of them would forget him.
Neither would the ones watching.
He stepped out of the pit into the next layer of the crew.
Cain walked with the armband tied to his forearm, still wet with someone else's blood.
The man with the scar same one who'd brought him here tossed him a half-broken lighter as they reached the top of the ramp. "You didn't flinch," he said. "You'll sleep closer to the wall."
Cain didn't answer.
They crossed back into the streets, this time turning through a fenced shortcut lined with burned-out stalls. Broken drones hung from power lines overhead like rusted crows. A collapsed billboard leaned over the block, casting a jagged shadow over everything below. In the distance, police sirens howled, but they didn't come this deep.
Nobody ever did.
The building they entered looked like it had once been a low-tier apartment block. Now it was stripped to brick and steel no glass, no doors, no names. Just a single rat-head tag by the stairwell and a line of string lights flickering up the handrail.
Second floor. End of the hall.
The room had no lock. No windows either. Just nine foam mattresses, stacked and spread. Blankets that smelled like smoke and wet cloth. A single water barrel in the corner with a tin cup chained to its handle.
Cain stepped inside.
The door stayed open. Always.
Eight others already lay across the floor. All of them young. Runners. Like him. One had a bandaged jaw. Another was missing three fingers. Most were asleep, or pretending to be.
One wasn't.
He sat against the wall, arms crossed, hood down. Red around the eyes. Thin arms. Dirty boots. He stared at Cain like he already had a reason to hate him.
Cain met his eyes. Didn't break contact.
The boy sniffed once. "You the one from the pit?"
Cain said nothing.
"You think that matters in here?"
Cain walked to the empty mattress closest to the water barrel. Dropped onto it. Pulled the strap off his shoulder and set the pipe down quietly. The boy kept talking.
"They let you skip the climb."
Cain didn't look up. "I bled for it."
"You didn't bleed enough."
Cain looked at him now. "Try me."
The boy smirked. "Name's Pint. Remember it."
"Didn't ask."
"That's alright. You'll hear it when I take your spot."
Cain lay back. The ceiling was cracked. Water stains stretched like veins across it. A lightbulb dangled from a twisted wire above, flickering like it was trying to stay awake.
He closed his eyes.
Pint threw something across the room. It hit Cain's shoulder a pebble or a chip of concrete. Cain didn't move. Didn't twitch.
"You gonna sleep like a dog?"
Cain opened his eyes. "No. You're gonna try something while I do."
The room got quiet. Even the fake sleepers stopped breathing for a second.
Cain didn't blink.
Pint sat back, arms still crossed, chewing at a cracked nail.
Cain stared at the bulb again.
He didn't trust this body to stay unconscious. He knew how ambushes worked. Even with a blade under the mattress, the first hour was the most dangerous. But sleep would come eventually.
It had to.
He lay still. Breathing slowed. His fingers curled under the edge of the blanket. Just enough to feel the steel pipe's weight.
Minutes passed.
Then a sound.
Soft. Wrong.
Cain's eyes opened. Not a blink. A shift. His hand moved an inch. Just enough.
Pint stood over him now. Crouched low. One hand half inside Cain's pocket.
Cain waited.
Waited until the fingers pinched his pocket lining.
Then he moved.
Fast.
Grabbed Pint's wrist, spun him onto his back with a quiet grunt, and pressed the pipe against the kid's throat just enough to make him freeze.
Pint tried to speak. Couldn't.
Cain leaned in close. Voice low. "If you're gonna steal from someone, make sure they sleep."
He let go.
Pint rolled over, coughing. Not loud. Embarrassed.
Cain didn't look around. He knew the others were watching now. He sat back on the mattress, leaned his head against the wall.
"You get one try," he said to the room.
The room stayed silent after that.
Minutes passed.
Then a scrape. A folded slip of paper slid under the broken door.
Cain stared at it. Didn't move yet. Didn't need to.
The note stopped by his boot. Wet from the floor.
He picked it up. Unfolded.
Two words, one time, no sender.
"Metro Tunnel. Midnight."
He read it once. Then again.
Another test.
Or a hit.
Or someone who knew who he used to be.
Cain closed the note slowly, eyes still locked on the doorway.
Someone out there had picked their moment.
He stood. Quiet. Steady. And walked out.