He turned away from the trash can, his thin frame hunched against the evening’s chill, and began to walk. His path took him along the brick walkway, tracing the edges of the deserted park as he slipped back toward the marketplace. Above him, the skeletal shapes of the dead skyscrapers loomed, their jagged edges blotting out patches of the darkening sky. They stood like silent guardians around the Northern Quadrant, casting long shadows that stretched out across the cobblestone paths and cracked streets, twisting in the dim glow of the city’s few remaining streetlights.

Ahead, he could see the towering high wall, stretching across the horizon like a prison barricade. It loomed so high that its upper reaches disappeared into the murky twilight. Built long before he was born, the wall was meant to “protect” the people within from the dangers that lay beyond. But to him, it felt like a cage, as though he’d been walled off from a life he couldn’t reach. He’d heard whispers of what existed outside the walls of The Northern Fortress—open fields, whole lakes of drinkable water, lands where cities grew freely without the backdrop of high walls. But those stories come from before the world died, long before he was even born.

To a boy like him, those stories were only fantasies, like the dream of consistent meals that would fully satisfy him.

He moved through the streets with quiet footsteps, keeping to the edge of the shadows. A few stragglers shuffled past him, figures as hollow and worn as he was, their faces cast in shades of gray. He wondered briefly about their lives, their stories—if any of them were also living their “last day.” Maybe everyone in the outskirts lived each day as though it might be their final one, but for him, the decision was made. He’d had enough.

The bricked path ended near the base of one of the old skyscrapers. He craned his neck, staring up at its cracked windows and rusting beams. This building had once been a financial center, or so he’d heard. Now it was nothing more than a vertical wasteland, its upper floors abandoned, its walls left to rot. Some of the lower floors repurposed into homes for wealthier people in the outskirts… if such a thing existed. In some places, entire sections had collapsed, leaving gaping holes that looked out over the Northern Quadrant like empty eye sockets. He had climbed this building once, years ago, hoping to find something valuable left behind. But there had been nothing except dust, shattered glass, remnants of a time he could only imagine, and a hard fist to the face when he came across the person who inhabited the room he broke into...

A gust of wind swept down from above, cutting through his threadbare jacket, and he shivered, wrapping his arms around himself for warmth. But he didn’t let the chill stop him. He had another destination in mind before his end.

The marketplace was empty now, its stalls closed and shuttered, the vendors long gone. The echoes of the day’s bustle lingered faintly in the air, like ghosts of voices that had once filled these narrow streets. The boy slowed as he reached the center of the marketplace, looking around at the rows of closed stalls and scattered refuse, the remains of the day’s trade.

And then he saw it: a dilapidated fountain in the center of the square, dry and covered in grime, its stone cracked and worn with age. In another life, maybe it had been beautiful, a place where people gathered, a symbol of something proud and enduring. Now, it was as broken as everything else in his world.

He climbed up onto the edge of the fountain and sat down, letting his feet dangle over the edge. The quiet settled over him, wrapping him in a strange, almost comforting stillness. He reached into his pocket and felt around for the last few coins he’d saved, though he knew he’d already spent them all on the bowl of popcorn. All he found was a crumpled piece of paper, something he was given ages ago—a note to himself, a gift from his real mother, whom he had never met.

He unfolded it, smoothing out the creases, but the writing was nearly illegible, faded by time and grime. He could make out only a few words: "I love you... I am sorry"

He let out a soft laugh, the sound hollow replicating the hollow feeling in the empty marketplace. Love. That was a fantasy even more impossible than the thought of ever feeling full. He crumpled the paper back up and tucked it into his pocket, letting the weight of the night settle over him. There was nowhere else he wanted to go, nothing left to do.

Well. There was one thing. The last thing.

In the distance, the first stars began to appear, faint and flickering against the polluted sky. He wondered what it would be like to reach one of them, to drift away from this place and leave it all behind. Maybe out there, among the stars, he could find something different—a place where people weren’t hungry, where walls didn’t separate the wealthy from the desperate, where he might actually feel like he belonged.

But those thoughts were just dreams, as distant and unreachable as everything else in his life.

He sat there for a short while, staring up at the night sky, watching the stars blink into existence one by one.

A tear traced a slow, solitary path down the boy’s cheek as he sat, unmoving, his gaze still fixed on the distant stars. Finally, he rose from the fountain’s edge, his legs unsteady beneath him. As he stepped forward, his foot landed wrong, and he stumbled, catching himself with a sharp intake of breath as pain flared in his chest. He pressed a hand to his ribs, grimacing, before he forced himself to keep walking.

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The night had thickened around him, filling the cracked streets with deep shadows that clung to the broken buildings like smoke. The city outskirts were a wasteland, long forgotten by those who controlled the inner district. But ahead, one building still stood out, its narrow windows glowing with cold, fluorescent light, a lonely beacon in the darkness. It was a strange sight in this part of town, where every other structure had fallen into ruin. Unlike everything else in the outskirts, this place was kept clean and secure, a reminder of the reach—and wealth—of the inner district.

As he approached, another tear slipped down his cheek, faster this time, though he barely noticed. The building loomed in front of him: a squat, boxy structure, its concrete walls a faded red that looked brown under the dim streetlights. It was nothing impressive by inner district standards, but here, in the decaying outskirts, it might as well have been a fortress. This was where the inner district’s authority extended—here, at the police station, where the city's laws reached just far enough to remind the poor of their place.

Not that they did their jobs very well. Crime was rampant out in the outskirts. But this was his last stop. The end of a path he’d known deep down he would have to walk sooner or later.

His lips twisted into a bitter smile as he glanced around at the empty street.

The silent buildings.

The broken lives lingering just out of sight in the shadows.

The poverty.

This was his world, his entire life laid bare before him.

His face flattened… he wasn’t Impressed.

“Guess I’m not really ready to give up,” he murmured, his voice barely audible in the still night. “But I sure won’t miss this when I’m gone…”

With a steadying breath, he climbed the short flight of steps. At the top, he paused, one hand resting against the glass door, feeling its coolness seep into his skin. He pushed it open, the door swinging inward with a heavy creak that echoed through the empty lobby. Inside, the fluorescent lights buzzed softly, casting a stark, almost clinical light over the chipped tile floor and peeling walls. The air smelled faintly of bleach, mixed with something metallic, a scent that made him feel like he was already in a morgue.

He approached the front counter, where a thick pane of reinforced glass separated him from the officer behind it. The man looked up, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took in the figure’s disheveled appearance—his tangled lengthy hair, his clothes worn to threads, the dirt that clung to his skin like a second layer.

He hadn’t bothered with appearances lately; he was beyond that now. He’d spent too many nights hiding, stealing what he needed to survive, but this time… well, there was no point in hiding anymore.

The officer leaned forward, speaking through a small, round opening in the glass, his voice muffled but tinged with curiosity. “Hello, young… uh… m-man! What brings you here this late at night?”

The boy could see the way the officer’s eyes darted over him, taking in the desperation he wore like a second skin. It had been a long time since anyone looked at him with anything other than suspicion, and for a brief moment, he felt a flicker of embarrassment at his own appearance.

Clearing his throat, he forced himself to speak. “Um… Hello. I’ve come to turn myself in.”

The officer’s brows knitted together in confusion. “Turn yourself in? For what?” There was disbelief in his tone, as if he couldn’t imagine what a boy from the outskirts would consider worth surrendering himself for.

“My name is Draemir,” he said, his voice steadier than he felt. “And… I’m here to turn myself in for being infected.”

The officer’s face shifted from confusion to alarm, his expression tightening as he took a half-step back, instinctively widening the distance between them despite the glass. Draemir watched the reaction, feeling a faint, cold satisfaction. Even here, in this secure place the officer was afraid of him now.

“A-are you sure?” the officer stammered, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “What… what symptoms are you experiencing? How long ago did they start?”

Draemir shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant even as a dull ache throbbed in his chest. “Pretty sure. It’s mostly chest pains, fatigue… a lot more than usual. It… it sucks.” He hesitated, then added, almost as an afterthought, “Started about a week ago.”

The officer’s expression darkened, his gaze turning somber. He looked at Draemir with something close to pity, a sadness that seemed almost genuine. In the outskirts, everyone knew what an infection meant. It wasn’t something you survived. And for people like Draemir—poor, hungry, uneducated—it was more than just a death sentence. It was an impossible challenge, a trial that demanded strength and knowledge he didn’t have.

He knew a little about his circumstances, though. He had of course learned what he knew from seeing the informational posters about the disease, at least… the little he could read - And of course by hearing stories about the inhuman abilities the awakened - Those who have passed an ascension trial - have. The infected were forced to undergo something they called the “First Ascension Trial,” but everyone around knew what that really meant. The trial only led one way for people like him.

The officer glanced away, pressing his lips together as he reached for the radio clipped to his belt. His voice came out steady, practiced, but Draemir could hear the tension beneath it. “We have… an infected case in the lobby. Initiate quarantine procedures.”

A crackling response came through the radio, and the officer turned back to Draemir, his expression carefully neutral. “Another officer will be here shortly to… to escort you to the quarantine unit. I’m… I’m sorry this happened to you.” He hesitated, his voice softening. “And… I wish you luck.”

The words felt hollow, a formality, and yet Draemir could sense the sympathy beneath them, thin as it was. He nodded slowly, swallowing against the lump forming in his throat. What was left to say? This was it. He’d heard stories about what happened in the quarantine unit, whispered tales that drifted through the outskirts like dark, secret shadows.

The infected were isolated, chained up, hidden away from society, and forced to endure a horror meant to “cleanse” them. But Draemir knew better. For him, this trial would be the end. The rumors were clear enough—only the privileged, the strong, ever walked out of quarantine alive. And he was neither of those things. His life of hunger and hardship had left him weak, unprepared. Whatever lay ahead in quarantine, he knew he didn’t stand a chance.

The officer looked at him one last time, then turned away, as if unable to bear Draemir’s quiet resignation. Draemir clenched his fists, feeling the calluses on his palms bite into his skin. This wasn’t a death he’d chosen, not really. But in the end, what choice did he ever have?

All he could do now was wait for the next officer to arrive, to take him to whatever awaited in quarantine. His death was near.