The factory loomed silent as a tomb. Kael pressed himself against a rusted conveyor support, its cold metal biting through his threadbare shirt, and tried to swallow the tremor in his chest. Every surface here sagged with rot—beams pitted by corrosion, shattered glass crunching under his boots, puddles of oily water rippling in the dim dawn light. He pulled his knees up, hugging them like a child clutching a blanket, and let the weight of his own ragged breathing fill his ears.
He was starving, thirsty, and his left side throbbed with a slow, pulsing ache where the Shard had lodged itself weeks ago. The leather straps of Mira's table felt kinder than this. Why did I think I could do this alone? he thought, eyes flicking to the far corner where a broken locker lay half‑pried open. Inside, a moldy loaf of bread and half‑empty water bottle gleamed like hidden treasure. Kael forced himself upright, every movement a fresh stab of agony. His black veins, once faint bruises, now writhed like small worms beneath his skin, reminding him with each heartbeat that the Blight was never far behind.
He hobbled over, hands shaking so badly he nearly dropped the bottle. He swallowed a long, burning gulp, the stale water sliding down his throat like shame. The bread followed—dry, gritty, but sustenance nonetheless. With each bite, Kael's mind buzzed with a dozen panicked thoughts:
Jarek's coming. Those hound‑drones will find me.What if Mira tracks the case?I'm seventeen. I'm too young for this shit.
A cold droplet fell from a fractured pipe overhead, splattering on his shoulder. He yelped, more from surprise than pain, and nearly tumbled back onto the concrete. Kael gripped the locker's edge for support, fingers curling into the chipped paint. His heart pounded like a warning drum: Get out. Get out. Get out.
And yet he stayed.
He had nowhere else to go.
Kael glanced around the cavernous hall. Shafts of dusty light slanted through broken skylights, revealing the skeleton of long‑dead machinery. A giant crane arm sagged overhead. Its rusted hook swung lazily in the draft, groaning like an old man's breath. Kael's eyes locked on it. A rope. In his fever‑dreams, he'd imagined swinging that hook, latching onto the rafters, making his grand escape. But his arms felt like wet noodles. Even lifting his pack of vials had almost collapsed him.
He sank onto the floor, back against the conveyor's leg. He spotted a scrap of cardboard and rubbed at the puddle of sticky oil, trying to fashion a makeshift seat. The cardboard curled under his weight. Great job, genius. His own sarcasm tasted bitter, but it was better than silence.
In the hush, Kael's chest lurch‑whispered with every breath. His mind drifted to home—if he even had one anymore. He pictured a cramped room with a cracked window overlooking the slums, where he'd once laughed with Jarek at stupid jokes. Jarek, who'd left him bleeding in a bank vault for a bag of coins. The memory was a raw burn in his belly. Fuck you, Jarek.
A low metallic click made him freeze. Somewhere in the shadows, a piece of machinery came to life—just one gear turning. The sound echoed, magnified by the emptiness. Kael's stomach clenched. He didn't know if the factory was haunted or if stray hound‑drones had found him. He clutched at the strap of his backpack, blade‑shafts of venom sleeping inside. His fingers brushed the cold glass of a vial, and for a moment he imagined the liquid writhing to life, a tiny ally in his fight. But that thought felt like fantasy. He was too weak.
The gear clinked again—closer this time. Kael pulled his knees even higher, chin pressed to his chest. He closed his eyes, picturing the sewers instead. The dank tunnels had their own terrors, but at least he understood them. Here, in this abandoned graveyard of steel, he was utterly alone.
I can't die here, he told himself. His voice was a small, cracked whisper. I can't.
He stayed like that for long minutes, counting his breaths. In, out. In, out. Each exhale a promise: Tomorrow, I'll try again. Tomorrow, he'd test the venom. Tomorrow, he'd move deeper into the refinery and find a better vantage point. Tomorrow, he'd train his body to obey. Tomorrow, he'd stop feeling like a scared kid.
Daylight crept higher, painting the concrete in pale gold. The factory's silence seemed to soften, as if giving him a momentary reprieve. Kael uncapped a vial and ran a finger around its edge—spores glittering like broken stars. His pulse thudded so loudly he was sure the factory heard it. He tucked the vial back into his pack, then stumbled to his feet.
With one last look at the locker‑bed, the oil‑slick puddle, and the swaying hook, Kael stepped forward. Every step was agony. Every thought a revolt of fear. Yet each footfall felt like the first spark of courage.
I'm still here, he told the empty hall. That's enough for now.
And with that, the scared kid in the rust‑stained factory took his first, trembling step toward becoming something more.