Note: This first chapter takes place five years after the prologue ends.

The city was too quiet. My leg throbbed as I crouched in the shadow of a crumbling wall, gripping the satchel tightly against my chest. A scream echoed faintly in the distance, but it was the silence afterward that made my stomach tighten.

I rubbed my thumb over the fractured glass of the watch on my wrist. My father's watch. The only thing I had left of him. It didn't tick anymore, but that didn't matter. Time had stopped five years ago anyway, the day the Legacies came.

I hadn't felt safe since. His deep voice and the way his arms wrapped around me—those were memories I clung to like a lifeline, even as they cut deeper every year. The questions gnawed at me constantly. How had he saved me that day? Could I have saved him? The answers, like him, were lost.

The watch's once-polished surface was deliberately dirtied, its shine dulled to avoid drawing attention. Anything valuable was a liability in Beggar's End. The city fed on weakness and greed, and it had devoured better people than me.

I shook the memories away and steadied my breath, pressing my back against the cracked stone wall. The cool wind tugged at my jagged, uneven hair, sending a shiver down my spine. My eyes, sharp from years of navigating the dark, scanned the shattered cityscape below. The ruins stretched endlessly, a jagged sea of black and gray illuminated only by the pale moonlight. Broken glass scattered across the streets glinted faintly like fractured stars.

Beautiful destruction. Like something from a nightmare.

My destination was a few blocks away, marked by a skinny tower that gleamed faintly in the moonlight. It was the halfway point. Once I reached it, I'd be closer to finishing this job and going home.

Gritting my teeth, I pushed off the wall. My leg protested, sharp pain shooting up as I limped toward the edge of the building. The satchel hanging at my waist felt heavier with every step. My calloused hands gripped the ledges as I descended, the rough stone biting into my skin but never breaking it.

Landmarks guided me: a collapsed storefront, a fallen flagpole, and a crooked building shaped like a leaning box. These were familiar markers in a city that never stayed the same for long. The Enforcement's relentless push to shrink the city's perimeter meant entire blocks vanished regularly, swallowed by destruction or cordoned off for the foreseeable future.

As I moved, a faint scent of smoke caught my nose, and my stomach twisted. A thin plume of smog rose a block away, silhouetted against the full moon. I froze, narrowing my eyes.

Idiot.

Smoke was a beacon in Beggar's End—an invitation for death. Either someone was desperate enough to risk it or had given up entirely.

I cupped my hands around my ears, listening intently. The sound came soon after: the faint clink of boots. Five men moved through an alley adjacent to the fire. My stomach dropped as the scene unfolded in my mind.

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The small woman by the fire had made a fatal mistake. Her ruined night vision rendered her blind to the predators closing in. They moved like shadows, silent and swift. When she turned toward the sound, it was already too late. A scream shattered the quiet, sharp and raw. Then silence.

In my mind's eye, I saw her neck snap. They would take what little she had, stomp out the fire, and disappear into the night. If they didn't eat her, the animals would. Beggar's End thrived on death. Survival wasn't about morals; it was about what you were willing to do to stay alive.

I clenched my jaw and kept moving. Standing still in Beggar's End was an invitation to join the dead.

The journey blurred into a haze of pain and caution. Every step sent jolts through my injured leg, but I ignored it, climbing over broken stone and slipping through the shadows. After what felt like hours, I reached the base of the skinny tower. Its spire loomed above me, a jagged silhouette against the stars.

My muscles screamed as I scaled another wall and perched on a crumbling ledge three stories up. The air was colder here, biting through my tattered jacket. From this vantage, I could see Figueroa Street—a place where screams and gunshots were as common as breathing. Even at my strongest, it wasn't a place to linger.

I descended cautiously, every movement calculated. Twenty feet, ten, five, then finally, my feet hit the ground. I bit the inside of my cheek to stifle a cry as pain flared in my leg. Tears pricked at my eyes, but I blinked them away quickly. Weakness had no place here.

Navigating the alleys near Figueroa, I stepped on a crumpled piece of paper. My heart jumped as I scanned the alley for movement, then crouched to inspect it. A poster, its edges torn and colors faded, read: "Join the fight against the Legacies!"

I crumpled it in my fist. Legacies weren't saviors. They were monsters. No human could kill without guilt. No human would murder millions without hesitation.

My father's face flashed in my mind—his final moments, stolen by a Legacy who didn't even glance back.

I shoved the paper into the overflowing trash and pressed forward. Anger burned through me, sharp and familiar. It was better than grief. Anger kept me moving. Grief would kill me.

Finally, I reached my destination: a nondescript door tucked into the shadows of an alley. Rats scurried nearby, their squeaks echoing faintly. I knocked quietly, the sound muffled by the oppressive stillness.

A panel slid open, revealing a pair of wary eyes. "What do you want?" the man hissed.

"Trigger sent me," I said, pulling the package from my satchel. I held it up cautiously, ensuring he could see it. The man's eyes darted between me and the box, suspicion etched across his face.

"Are you armed?" he asked.

"No." The lie came easily.

"Come in. Hands where I can see them."

I stepped inside, the door creaking shut behind me. The room reeked of liquor and decay, its sparse furniture barely holding together. The man, disheveled and twitchy, leveled a gun at me as he gestured toward the package.

"Proof you're with Trigger?" he demanded.

Slowly, I reached for my ID, and the sound of the gun's hammer clicking sent a chill down my spine. "I'm Skye Ford," I said evenly, handing over the tattered card.

He squinted at it, then back at me, his skepticism turning to surprise. I didn't flinch under his gaze, though my hand hovered near the knife strapped to my thigh.

After what felt like an eternity, he grabbed the package greedily. "Tell Trigger I'll get him the money soon."

"He doesn't like to wait," I warned, my voice steady despite the knot tightening in my chest.

The man's eyes flickered with fear before he slammed the door in my face. I exhaled shakily and slipped back into the shadows.

Another delivery done. Another gun pointed at my face. Another step closer to survival.

But as I limped away, a chill crept up my spine. Something was wrong. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end as I scanned the darkness. Then I heard it—the faint scuff of footsteps behind me.

I wasn't alone.