Walking home—or what was supposed to be a home—Graves passed people living in the streets. Some lay sprawled on the ground, seemingly lifeless. Children looked like skeletons covered only in skin, while the elders had hollowed-out eyes and coughed occasionally.
He had wrapped his meat tightly, clutching it close to his body. The polluted air grew worse, making him cough. Coughing was a normal thing here. Other children stared at him with heavy gazes, their eyes seeing right through his wrapped package. Graves hastened his pace.
Nearing his destination, he recounted his gains: a half-kilo of meat and seven NHF coins. That would be enough to last a day, provided he didn't have to buy supplementary drugs.
Damn it, he thought. Being born into a world where no one cared if you lived or died was a curse.
Taking a turn into a dark alley, he was met by four gang members. They were all bigger than him, holding sticks and machetes.
"Oi, boy, what do ya have there?" one of them asked, slowly moving toward Graves.
"N-nothing. I'm just going home," Graves replied, cold sweat pouring down his face.
"Don't joke with me, boy. I can see the wrap you got there. Mind sharing?"
The others chuckled, straightening up from where they had been leaning against the walls. Realistically speaking, Graves couldn't do much against them. He couldn't even take on one of them; even if he tried, his frail body would betray him. Engaging them was out of the question, but giving up his hard-earned meat and NHF coins wasn't an option either.
Thankfully, they hadn't surrounded him completely.
Spinning around, he made a quick dash for the alley's exit, running with all his might despite his blistered feet. It seemed they had anticipated his move, because they gave chase immediately.
Bursting out into the busy streets, the people around them just stared without caring. No one ever cared anyway—it happened all the time. It was a dog-eat-dog world.
Graves's lean figure gave him an advantage, allowing him to weave past obstructions and smartly use positioning to beat their pure speed. He deliberately led them away from his home; it was the smartest thing he could do.
But it wasn't enough. They were gaining on him.
One of them lifted a weapon, bringing it down with so much force that the attacker actually lost his balance when it missed. A second strike came from the left, aiming straight for Graves's head. Graves raised his arm to block, but he hadn't realized the weapon was a heavy club, carrying far more force than a mere stick.
It struck him so hard that he lost his footing, tumbling into a wide, deep pile of garbage.
"Where the fuck is he?" a voice rang out from above. It was the thug who had spoken to him earlier.
"I don't know, he fell into this garbage. Do you want us to search?" another asked.
There was a brief pause. "There's no need. We'll get him some other time. Let's go nab some other kids."
Hearing them walk away, Graves heaved a quiet sigh of relief. Slowly, his consciousness began to drift....