I wake before the first hint of dawn, the city's rising pulse a distant thrum against the thin walls of our tenement. Darkness clings to the corners of my small room, and I lie still for a moment, listening to Mama's soft cough from the next bed over. I pull the ragged blanket tighter around my shoulders and wonder if today will be any different from the last hundred mornings. But even as the thought slips into my mind, I know it won't be—I'm already mentally tallying the chores and hustles that must follow if I'm to scrape together enough coins for food, let alone rent.
Silently, I slip from under the blanket. The floorboards creak beneath my bare feet, and I wince at the sound. Outside, the narrow hallway is already stirring: other tenants shifting in their sleep, old pipes groaning as water trickles through rusted conduits. I pull on my coat—threadbare at the elbows, patched with mismatched fabric—and pad toward the stairwell. In the pale glow of a single flickering bulb, I pause by Mama's door. Her breathing is shallow and uneven; worry knots my gut. I brush a stray lock of hair from her forehead and whisper good morning, though I know she won't hear.
By the time I reach the ground floor, the sky is growing lighter, a pale gray ribbon above the skyline of rusted water towers and concrete spires. The Gray District—our home—spreads before me like a wounded beast. Narrow alleys snake between tenements so close they almost touch, and crates, barrels, and broken carts line the pathways. The air smells of damp stone, cooking fires, and the faint metallic tang of sewage. It never gets easier to breathe, but I've learned to hold my breath in particularly foul stretches.
My first stop is the cistern courtyard, where plastic buckets and battered pots queue for their turn. I step in line behind Mrs. Ortega, who clutches her bucket with knuckles white as chalk. When at last the spigot drips cold water into my container, I cup my hands and drink. The water is lukewarm and tastes of rust, but I swallow gratefully. A stranger today might see only a desperate need, but I see purpose: every drop counts toward cooking the meager meals Mama and I share. As I hoist the bucket, I catch sight of Jin leaning against the far wall. He wears a crooked grin and waves—his loose shirt hanging off one shoulder, the cheap sandals on his feet barely hanging on. I force myself to smile back, though my stomach knots at the sight.
My next task is at the market: I barter my first real commodity of the day—my mind. Stall after stall advertises stale bread or wilted greens, but I look for the owner who values more than haggling. At Mr. Lee's grain stall, I note in his ledger that his flour reserves run low, although he's overstocked on barley. I lean in and whisper a suggestion: swap some barley for flour with a neighboring stand in exchange for a share of their stock, and you'll fill your quotas by midday. He studies me with narrow eyes, then nods. Seconds later, he passes a small copper coin across the counter. It isn't much, but in this district it might as well be gold.
The coin feels heavy in my palm. I tuck it away before anyone else can see, slipping it into the pocket where I hide my few personal treasures: a small portion of paper I tore from Mama's old ledger to write down new ideas, and a scrap of charcoal greasepaint from my last theater cameo—an image of a rising phoenix that still smudges my fingers when I touch it. Today's trade fills my stomach with a buzz I can't explain. It's not fear or shame, but something new: power.
I use that coin to buy a slice of flatbread—dry, crumbly, but mine to eat—and I retreat to the narrow alley behind the stalls. The morning light spills through a gap between corrugated roofs, casting golden lines on the rough stone walls. I tear off a chunk of bread and chew slowly, listening to the city waking up: a vendor's bell jingles, a child's laugh echoes somewhere above, and the clatter of a cart's wheels on uneven cobbles punctuates the air. I close my eyes and savor the meal. Five minutes of warmth—more than Mama and I have enjoyed in weeks.
I think about Angelica. She'll be at the announcement board today, reading her name among the dozen chosen for the Academy Prep scholarship. My application was turned down without fanfare or explanation. I remember the sensation of that rejection email: the small flame of hope flickering out, leaving behind only the chill of certainty. My chest tightens at the memory, and I glance down the alley, half-expecting to see her slip by in her neat uniform, the book bag over one shoulder. Maybe she'll notice me and nod. Unlikely. Most days, I'm a ghost in her world now.
With the flatbread crumbs scattered across my lap, I rise and head toward Old Man Watanabe's warehouse. He needs help unloading crates before the midday heat hits, and he pays five coins for an hour's work. Five coins could buy a proper meal—rice and soup, maybe even a boiled egg. As I approach, I see Watanabe supervising a younger worker whose sleeves are already soaked through. The younger man looks at me with desperation, as though he fears I'll take the job he needs. But I hurry forward without hesitation.
"Morning, Mr. Watanabe," I call out, bowing slightly. He looks up and smiles, wrinkling the skin around his eyes.
"You're punctual, kid," he says, handing me the roll of industrial gloves. "Come on, then."
We unload heavy wooden crates in silence, punctuated by Watanabe's instructions and the occasional grunt. Each crate feels like a small victory—another brick in the wall I'm building between me and the slum. When the last crate is shifted, he presses a small pile of coins into my hand.
"Get something warm to eat," he says. "Don't let it go to waste."
I nod and slip the coins into my pocket. Hunger pinches my gut, but I resist the urge to spend it all at once. Instead, I earmark two coins for a midday snack—perhaps a handful of rice balls from the street vendor down the road—and tuck the remaining three away for emergencies. Emergencies like another clinch with Jin, or the day I need to bribe someone at City Hall for the records I can't access here.
On the way home, I pass Jin again, this time outside a run-down corner shop showing off a battered smartphone. "Look at this," he says, swiping through a game app. "Guess how many levels I've beaten." He laughs, unaware of the library of knowledge I barter for free with Mr. Lee.
"Enough," I say, voice tight. "Games won't fill your stomach."
He shrugs, blue light flickering off his face. "I've got my ways."
I look away, shame rising in my cheeks. He thinks I'm a fool for working for pennies. Maybe he's right. But I swallow hard and keep moving, refusing to let his indifference derail my plans.
Back in the tenement, Mama greets me with that same tired smile. Her eyes flick to the empty spots on the shelf where we used to keep tea and biscuits—luxuries long gone. I place the two rice balls in her hand without a word. She nods, eyes misting. I rest my forehead against hers for a heartbeat, breathing in the faint scent of soap and sickness.
"I'll find a way out," I promise, though the words taste hollow. She pats my shoulder and returns to bed, too weak to argue.
Night falls faster these days, and I'm up again before the oil lamp flickers out. I open my journal—the frayed notebook where I record every coin earned, every debt owed, and every grudge carried. The first pages are dog-eared and stained; the last page I wrote reads: When the world has nothing to give me, I'll take it all. I stare at it, feeling both pride and fear. Pride because I mean it, and fear because I don't yet know what "taking it all" will cost me.
I press my fingers to the page, tracing the words. Outside, a distant siren wails—a reminder that the world is bigger than this district, and full of dangers I can't yet imagine. Still, I close the journal and slide it under my pillow. Tonight, I'll sleep on dreams of wealth and revenge, and tomorrow I'll wake ready to carve my name into the city's stone.
As I close my eyes, I imagine the day I'll stand atop these tenements, looking down on the world I once begged to join. In that moment, I'll know I've finally taken something worth having. And until then, I'll wake at dawn, and do it all again.