The rain never stopped in this city.
Sometimes it fell in sheets so loud it drowned the sirens. Other times it whispered down like it was tired of watching. Tonight, it just hung in the air—misty, light, enough to blur the streetlights and make everything look forgotten.
I walked with my hands in my pockets.
No plan. No place to be. My shoes were wet, my sleeves heavier than they should be. The blood had dried into the fabric, but it still stuck to my skin. Nobody looked at me. Nobody asked why a boy was walking alone this late with no umbrella, no fear, and no expression.
In this city, people only ask questions when they want to die.
I passed a man curled up near a shuttered convenience store. His leg was bent the wrong way. Two boys stood across from him, talking loud, laughing like the guy wasn't even there. One had a blade tucked into his sock. The other had a smirk that made me pause.
The guy on the ground had no percent. Not anymore. Once you can't stand, you don't count.
I kept walking.
When I was younger, my mother used to say the world was quiet if you stopped trying to speak over it.
That was before she started whispering to avoid being heard.
Before she started bruising easy.
He came home late that night.
My father never slammed the door. He wasn't that type. His kind did everything slowly. The kind of man who poured his drink before yelling. The kind who tucked in his shirt before throwing a punch. The kind who didn't raise his voice unless the silence didn't work.
I was in bed. Not asleep. Not pretending either. I just lay there, eyes on the ceiling, watching the shadows flicker from the hallway light.
Then came the sharp clatter of a glass breaking. Her voice. Not a scream—just a sharp breath, like someone surprised her from behind.
I didn't move.
Seconds passed. A dull thud. Then another. Then... nothing.
The silence after a hit is different. It hums.
The next morning, she wasn't in the kitchen.
The dishes were still there. The stove off.
He left early, like always. Buttoned shirt. No rush. Just routine.
Like nothing had happened.
She was in the hallway.
Face down. Dead.
One hand stretched toward the bedroom door. Mine.
I didn't cry. I didn't call anyone. It's not like anyone would care.
I sat next to her for a long time. I remember the dust in the corners more than her eyes. The blood was still dark, not yet dry.
Eventually I moved her arm. Not out of respect. Just because I wanted to lie down.
I slept next to her that night.
The next day, he came back. Same as before.
Walked in. Loosened his tie. Took off his shoes. Didn't say a word.
He stepped over the dried blood like it was spilled coffee. Then he looked at me.
His eyes didn't say "sorry." They didn't say anything.
I asked him one question.
"Why?"
He shrugged.
"Because she talked too much."
That night, I waited.
I didn't touch her. Didn't clean the floor. Didn't eat.
I just sat. Watching his door.
His breathing was steady. He always snored after three drinks.
I had no plan. No training. No percent.
Just a decision, I will avenge my mother.
I didn't know what caused the thought. In this cold world, she was the only one who gave me warmth — maybe that was why.
I leaped on him, stabbing deep into his neck. Blood gushed out and he struggled but it didn't take long before he stopped.
I left the apartment, I didn't slam the door.
I locked it. Pocketed the key.
No one would notice for days.
The city was louder than usual.
I walked past three fights before I reached the main road. Sirens passed me twice. None of them stopped.
In the distance, on the other side of the city, two bodies were pulled from a laundromat. Both wore suits. One still had a watch ticking on his wrist.
"Harry ain't gonna like this," one of those who pulled them out said as they left.
They worked for a man named Harry James.
People whispered that he was 5%.
I didn't know what that meant yet.
I walked closer to the bodies and sat between them for awhile. They looked important — probably were part of the system.
A man in a black cloak walked slowly approaching me. I looked up but didn't move.
"You didn't kill 'em, did you?."
I just shaked my head.
"Then who's blood you got painted on you?."
"My father's." I didn't feel guilty in the slightest way.
He chuckled.
"I killed my dad too, that son of a gun always thought he could control me."
He looked at his cigarette as if he was talking to it — then smoked it.
"This city runs on numbers now, If you want to survive… learn how to count." Harry said voice flat.
"What's your name kiddo?."
"Jackson— Jackson Nathaneil."
He didn't say anything right away.
After I told him my name, Jackson Nathaneil, he just stood there with the smoke curling around his face, watching me. The kind of watch that makes your skin feel thin. Like you're being measured.
Not judged.
Measured.
The blood on my sleeves had started to dry and stiffen. The cold air stuck to it. I didn't shiver. I was past cold.
He tapped the ash off his cigarette and pointed down at the men beside me with a flick of his chin.
"You know what these guys did?"
I shook my head.
"They were politicians. Not the kind you see on TV. Real ones. Moved numbers behind the curtain. Could make a man disappear by answering the phone wrong."
He crouched beside one of them, not looking at me.
"Now they're numbers too. Just smaller ones."
I stared at them.
Their suits looked expensive. One still had his tie neatly fixed. His mouth was open like he had tried to say something before it ended.
They didn't look powerful. They looked… empty. Like all that power left their bodies first.
Maybe it did.
Harry stood up and took one last drag from his cigarette.
"You didn't kill 'em, that's clear. You don't even have the posture."
He turned to walk off, then paused.
"How old are you?"
I shrugged. "Twelve."
He chuckled again. That same dry, unfriendly sound.
"You'll go far, Jackson Nathaneil — you'll go far"
I didn't thank him.
He didn't offer help.
He just walked off into the mist like he had somewhere else to be—and he probably did. Probably ten somewheres.
But I stayed there. Sitting. Watching the men that everyone used to answer to.
And all I could think was:
I don't ever want to die like that.
I walked away an hour later. Nobody stopped me.
There was a hole behind the bakery in the West Block where runaways slept. I knew a few of their names. They didn't know mine. That's how it worked. Talk too much, and someone starts counting your value.
I lay down between a garbage can and a stack of crates, pulled my hood up, and closed my eyes.
For the first time in days, I actually slept.