Kael's eyes opened slowly.

  For a long minute, he didn't move. He just stared at the ceiling. It wasn't cracked. There were no water stains, no peeling mold, and no exposed, sparking wires. It was just plain, clean concrete.

  He shifted his head, his neck stiff. The room was mid-sized—small, but not the suffocating crawlspace he called home. He saw a sturdy metal shelf, a wooden table, and a window with actual glass. Weak, gray light from Sector Four filtered through the pane, casting long shadows across the floor.

  The air didn't smell like the usual cocktail of ozone and rot. It smelled of cheap antiseptic and clean bandages.

  He frowned. This place was expensive. At least for him.

  "Oh," a voice said casually from the corner. "Didn't expect you to be awake yet."

  Kael's gaze snapped toward the window. A boy sat in a wooden chair, a worn book resting on his lap. He didn't look much older than Kael. He had soft brown hair and calm, deep green eyes that caught the light like polished gems. He wasn't exactly handsome, but he looked healthy—clean skin, relaxed shoulders, and an air of quiet confidence that felt out of place in the slums.

  Kael ignored the greeting. "Where am I?"

  "My place. Sector Four," the boy replied, closing his book.

  "What happened?"

  The boy leaned back, crossing his legs. "I found you in the mouth of that narrow alley behind the broken warehouse near the filtration plant. You were losing a lot of blood. I saved you from some thugs."

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  The memory rushed back—the metallic taste of his own lungs, the thundering boots, and the moment his legs finally gave out.

  "There were thugs looking for you," the boy added. "Iron Teeth."

  Kael tried to sit up. A sharp, jagged pain flared in his side, forcing a hiss through his teeth, but he stayed upright.

  "Didn't think anyone was dumb enough to mess with the Iron Teeth," the boy said. "Of all the gangs in this area."

  Kael frowned. "What's so special about them? They're just another gang."

  The boy blinked, looking at Kael with genuine surprise. "You really don't know?"

  "They're thugs with metal caps on their teeth. What else is there?"

  The boy sighed and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "They aren't from here. They're the leftovers of Sector Eight."

  Kael stayed silent, waiting.

  "Sector Eight used to be a hub," the boy continued. "Then the gangs took over. It wasn't just crime; it was a war zone. If you lived there, you paid for the right to breathe. If you couldn't pay, they took your shop, your food, or your family. Bodies in the alleys weren't a tragedy; they were a Tuesday."

  He paused, his expression darkening.

  "The government couldn't close their eyes anymore. One night, they locked every gate in Sector Eight. No one got out. Real soldiers. Rifles. Armor."

  Kael could almost hear the gunfire.

  "It wasn't a raid. It was an extermination. Ninety percent of the gangs were wiped out in six hours. Anyone holding a weapon was put down."

  "And the Iron Teeth?" Kael asked.

  "Their leader, Borias, pulled his core members out hours before it started. They fought their way through three different sectors just to hide out here in Four."

  The boy looked Kael dead in the eye.

  "They didn't survive because they were lucky. They survived because they're smarter and more ruthless than anything else on these streets."

  Kael let that sink in.

  He hadn't just stolen from some street predators. He had poked a hornets' nest of professional survivors. He had underestimated them. Badly.

  The boy suddenly straightened up, his serious tone vanishing. He extended a hand with a small grin.

  "Anyway. I'm Cole."

  He tilted his head.

  "And I'm your savior."