I wake up to the familiar creaking of metal, the sound of something heavy being slammed onto the table, and the distinct smell of burnt coffee. My blindfold stays on—I don't need to see to know that my uncle is already in a mood.
"You're up late," he grumbles. "Sun's already shinin'."
I scoff, sitting up on my cot. "That a joke?"
"Maybe." I hear him take a loud sip of whatever sludge he calls coffee. "Not my fault you sleep like a damn corpse. You even dream in all that darkness of yours?"
I stretch, rolling my shoulders. "No clue. Don't remember my dreams. Probably the same as when I'm awake—black and white and not worth thinking about."
He exhales sharply through his nose. "Damn depressing way to live, kid."
"Don't call me kid."
"You act like one. I'll call you one." He slams a plate down on the table. "Eat."
I push myself up and make my way over, knowing he's watching me. He always does, like he expects me to just drop dead one of these days. I find the plate by feeling around for it, my fingers brushing against something hard and stale. Bread. Probably yesterday's.
"You ever think about takin' that thing off?" my uncle asks, his voice unnoticeably softer to normal ears.
I pause. I know what he means. Even if he doesn't outright say it.
"What for?" I mutter, pulling off a piece of bread. "Not like I'm missing anything."
"You don't know that," he argues, always the same damn argument. "Could be something worth seein'."
I let out a dry chuckle as I bite down on the harden, tasteless piece of bread. "Then describe it to me."
Silence. He doesn't. He never does. Because he knows—he knows that no matter how many words he uses, it won't change the fact that I'll never see what he sees. But even then, barely anybody sees a lot of anything these days.
"Forget it," he mutters after a moment, taking another sip of coffee. "You're as stubborn as a mule."
"Takes one to know one," I shoot back, chewing on the stale bread.
He snorts, and for a moment, the tension lifts. It always does, just a little. This is how we talk—like two jagged edges scraping together. Neither of us willing to smooth out.
And I wouldn't have it any other way...
The slums are restless today. Rain is pouring and seeping its way through the dirt in the ground. It makes the stench of the slums worse. Even without seeing the surrounding people, I can hear it in the way they move—hurried steps causing water to splash, whispered conversations, the occasional shout. Something has them on edge. Not that it matters to me. I keep my pace steady, hands tucked into my pockets, walking with purpose but no real destination.
Then I hear her.
"Oi, Samael!"
I sigh through my nose and keep walking. Maybe if I ignore her, she'll—
"Don't pretend you can't hear me, I know you can!"
Footsteps—light, quick—racing toward me. I barely have time to react before a small figure collides with my side. Not hard enough to knock me over, but enough to be really irritating.
"Eda," I mutter, stepping away. "Go away."
"But you just got here!" she says, her voice full of exaggerated offense. "And I never see you outside. What's the occasion? Finally tired of sulking in your little cave?"
I keep walking. She keeps following.
"You know," she says, walking backward in front of me, because of course she is "most people would say hello. Maybe ask how I'm doing."
I can hear her steps moving irregularly, and the water moving around them. She was most definitely twirling in the rain. I can practically hear the foolishness coming off of her.
"I'm not most people," I reply flatly.
"No kidding."
She hums to herself, undeterred, as she skips ahead before falling back into step beside me. I don't know what her deal is. She always does this—shows up out of nowhere, latches onto me like a damn leech, and refuses to take a hint. It's exhausting.
"You always wear that blindfold?" she asks suddenly.
I exhale sharply. "Yes."
"Ever think about taking it off?"
I stop walking. She almost trips trying to stop next to me.
I tilt my head in her direction. "Ever think about minding your own business?"
She grins. I hate that I can hear it in her voice. "Not really."
I shake my head and start walking again. She doesn't leave. She never does.
Speeding myself up, I wanted to be alone. I wanted to calmly hear the droplets hitting the roof of the messy huts built in the slums. I could hear her audibly pouting at my not-so-subtle escape attempt.
Eda whines as she hurries after me, her boots tapping against the uneven ground. "Come on, Samael! Just a little peek. Just for a second!"
I thought we were done with the unnecessary and annoying questions, but it seems they are never done with her around.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because no."
She groans dramatically, stomping her foot like a child throwing a tantrum. "You're so unfair. What if you're hiding something under there?"
I keep walking, but she's already on a roll.
"Maybe you've got some creepy glowing eyes," she muses. "Or, ooh! Maybe no eyes at all—just empty sockets, all dark and hollow!"
I sigh, knowing this will not end soon.
She gasps. "Or—maybe your eyes are actually stolen treasure, and that's why you cover them up! Someone might try to rip them out of your skull!"
I stop walking and turn my head slightly toward her. "…Are you seriously listening to those ridiculous rumors?"
"I mean, they've got to come from somewhere."
"They come from idiots."
"So does half the fun in life!"
I exhale sharply through my nose and keep walking. She skips ahead, turning to walk backward in front of me, grinning like she's just uncovered some grand mystery.
"Well, if you aren't hiding something, why not prove it?" she teases. "Just lift it for a second! I won't tell anyone. Promise."
I don't stop, don't acknowledge her, don't give her anything.
She huffs, puffing out her cheeks. "Fine. But one day, I'm gonna see what's under there."
"Sure," I say flatly. "When the world ends."
"Hey, in a place like this, that might not be too far off."
I shake my head, irritated but—maybe—just the tiniest bit amused. She's insufferable. Annoying beyond belief. But somehow, she always finds a way to stick around.
Suddenly the air shifts. A ripple moves through the slums, subtle at first—whispers passing between hunched figures, feet shuffling faster, heads turning toward the same point. Then, all at once, the stillness shatters.
People rush past me, a tide of bodies surging toward the center of the district. I don't need to ask why. I already know.
It's time.
The altar looms ahead, a crude, towering structure of rusted metal and cracked stone, positioned in the only open space in the slums. I just know it's an ugly thing, worn down by age and desperation, but to the people here, it might as well be sacred.
At the base of the altar stands a man. Straight-backed, dressed in the deep silks of the wealthy, untouched by the filth of the slums. He doesn't belong here, and he knows it. That's why he stands like that—above, apart, superior. A Length representative.
The people around me press forward, breathless with anticipation. They murmur, they reach, they hope. Soon, they will see color again. Soon, for a brief moment, they will remember what the world is supposed to look like.
Eda tugs at my sleeve. "You not gonna get closer?"
I shake my head. "What's the point?"
She sighs. "I don't get you, Samael."
"You never have."
I hear the representative clear his throat, and the crowd instantly falls silent.
It's time.
The representative steps forward, placing both hands on the altar. The air hums—low at first, then building, vibrating deep in my bones. The people around me hold their breath. Even Eda, for once, says nothing.
Then, Wave activates.
Seemingly Dark tendrils of energy pulse from the man's palms, snaking into the altar, sinking into its cracks and crevices like living veins. The entire structure groans under the force of it, the stone humming with unnatural power. The air distorts, warping around the altar like heat rising from burning metal.
And then—light.
Not sunlight. Not real. But something made, something controlled. It flares up from the altar, a pillar of unnatural brightness shooting into the sky. A signal. A summons.
The people of the slums do not speak. They only watch. Wait.
The Seven of Length have been called.
For a long, agonizing moment, nothing happens. Then, the light twists—shifting, splitting, morphing into seven distinct forms. Not bodies, not yet—just outlines, flickering in and out of existence like specters trying to force their way into reality. The energy thickens, pressing against my skin, and then—
They arrive.
Seven figures materialize atop the altar, standing above the crowd, above the representative, above everything. They are the most powerful individuals in the Length district, the ones who decide what the slums are allowed to have. To see. To be. Their faces are hidden behind ornate masks, their robes embroidered with colors that the people below them can barely comprehend.
The representative kneels. The people in the slums follow.
I don't.
They stood in a perfect line, towering figures cloaked in shifting veils of shadow and mystery. Their faces were hidden behind masks—smooth, featureless, and colorless, as if carved from the void itself. Their forms flickered at the edges, wavering like mirages in the heat. Robes of flowing darkness coiled around them, yet no wind stirred. Hollow eyes, unseen behind the masks, seemed to pierce through the air, and each movement left behind a faint echo, as if their presence lagged behind reality itself.
The Seven say nothing. They don't need to. With a simple movement—just a raise of a hand, a tilt of a head—they activate their own Wave. The altar surges with energy once more, and before the hungry eyes of the slum dwellers, food begins to take form.
Loaves of bread. Bags of grain. Fruits, vegetables—just enough to keep the people alive. Just enough to make them grateful.
Never enough to free them.
The crowd stirs, desperate hands reaching forward as the food solidifies, but no one dares move until the Seven allow it. The power they wield is absolute.
Eda grips my arm, her voice barely above a whisper. "This is so messed up."
I don't respond. I just keep my head turned toward the altar, toward the people groveling before it.
This isn't a gift.
It's a reminder.
The moment the Seven and their representative vanish, the silence snaps like a brittle wire.
Then all hell breaks loose.
People lunge forward, a desperate, starving mass surging toward the altar. The weak are shoved aside, the slow trampled underfoot. Hands grasp, claw, tear at anything they can reach—bread, grain, scraps, even each other. The sound of the chaos is deafening—screams, cries, the sickening crunch of fists meeting flesh.
I can hear the people struggling, hurting each other without a second thought as if they weren't peacefully coexisting a ten minutes ago. I can feel the vibrations of people getting their faces smashed in, along with bodies, some big, some small. Hitting the ground and unmoving.
Length doesn't care.
They don't care if we tear each other apart. They don't care if we kill for a handful of food. This is just another part of their game. Another way to remind us what we are—animals fighting for scraps at the feet of gods.
"Move!" Eda shouts, grabbing my sleeve and yanking me forward.
I hesitate. I hate this. The struggle, the desperation, the sheer madness of it all. But if we don't fight for our share, we don't eat.
And I am not stupid enough to starve.
I push forward, shoulder to shoulder with the others, using my senses to navigate the chaos. I don't need to see color to know where the bodies are, where the gaps open up, where the food is still within reach. I duck, weave, grab onto a sack of grain just as another hand latches onto it.
A man snarls at me, yanking hard. I tighten my grip.
"Let go, you little—"
I don't.
Instead, I twist, using my weight against him, yanking the sack free. He stumbles back, cursing, and I waste no time slipping away before he can take another swing at me.
Eda isn't far, clutching a bundle of food close to her chest, breathing hard. "Got yours?"
I nod, and without another word, we retreat.
Behind us, the madness rages on. The strong take. The weak fall.
And the gods of Length watch from their towers, entertained.
Just as we break away from the chaos, the second Wave of magic hits.
It washes over the slums like a crashing tide—silent, unseen, but impossible to ignore. A pressure fills the air, pressing against my skin, humming in my bones. Then, in an instant, the world changes.
Gasps ripple through the crowd as people start to adjust to the sudden change. Cries of wonder, relief, and something deeper—something like grief.
The light has returned.
For the first time in weeks, the people can see clearly. Faces that were once only vague shapes sharpened into focus. The dull, lifeless haze of the slums vanishes, replaced by crisp details, by clarity.
Mothers cradle their children, staring at them like they're seeing them for the first time. Lovers clutch each other, drinking in every detail they've been denied. For a fleeting moment, the world feels real.
I knew it was foolish of me to hope. But hearing the people so happy, so excited to see again it made me feel weird. I slightly lifted my blindfold, hoping for something different, something magical.
Like usual—nothing changes for me.
I stand in the midst of it all, blindfold back in its rightful place. The light touches everything—everything except me. Even if "miracles" happen, nothing about me ever changes.
It's all Black. White. Nothing else.
Beside me, Eda breathes out, staring at the world with wide, overwhelmed eyes. "It's beautiful," she murmurs, voice thick with emotion.
I don't respond.
Because for me, there is no beauty in this.
There never has been.
Eda grips my sleeve, her fingers twitching with excitement. "Samael… it's so different now."
I say nothing. I just stand there, listening, waiting. I don't know why she always does this—why she always tries to describe a world I will never see. But she does.
"The sky—" she hesitates, like she doesn't know where to start. "It's… I don't even know how to explain it. It's not just light, it's—warm? But not like heat, more like—like it feels open. Free." She turns in place, eyes wide, taking it all in. "The buildings… they're not just dark shapes anymore. They have color—browns, rust-reds, patches of green where plants still cling to life."
I exhale through my nose. "Sounds ugly."
She shoves me lightly. "You're missing the point!"
I am the point.
She sighs, but she doesn't stop. "And the people… gods, Samael, you should see them. Their eyes are—" She pauses, then laughs. "I guess you wouldn't get it, huh?"
I tilt my head slightly. "Try me."
Eda hums in thought, then continues. "It's like… when the light returns, their eyes come alive. Like they remember what it means to be human. The way they look at each other—it's so… raw."
I hear it in her voice—the wonder, the longing.
Eda's excitement falters. Her voice lowers, losing that breathless wonder.
"But… it's not all beautiful."
I hear the shift in her tone, the way her words slow, like she's seeing something she wishes she hadn't.
She swallows. "The slums… they're worse in the light."
I say nothing, waiting.
"The buildings aren't just old—they're falling apart. The wood's splintered, the metal rusted through. There are cracks everywhere, like the whole place is barely holding together." She turns, her footsteps shuffling against the dirt. "The ground… Samael, it's filthy. Black sludge seeps into the streets, pooling in the alleys. I think it's oil. Or maybe something worse."
She's quiet for a moment, then sighs. "And the people… they look tired. Even more than usual."
I tilt my head slightly. "How?"
Eda hesitates. "Their faces. In the dark, you don't see the details—you don't see the sunken cheeks, the hollow eyes, the scars. But now? Now, it's all there. Every mark, every bruise, every bit of suffering they've endured just to survive another day."
She exhales sharply. "It's funny, isn't it? When we're blind, we can pretend the world isn't so bad. But when we finally see it—when Length lets us—it's like they're reminding us just how broken we really are."
Her words should hit harder, but they don't.
Eda turns to me, tilting her head as she gave a long, scrutinizing look. I felt her eyes flick up and down, taking in whatever details the light has revealed.
Then she smirks. "You know, Samael… you're even uglier than usual."
I scoff, annoyed at her antics. "Charming as ever, Eda."
She grins, nudging me with her elbow. "I mean it. You look like you just crawled out of some abandoned grave."
"That bad, huh?"
"Oh, worse." She taps her chin, pretending to think. "The dark at least did you a favor by hiding half your face. But now? Now, I can see every little frown line, every tired crease in that face, every—"
I start walking.
"Hey! I wasn't done yet!" she laughs, running to catch up.
I don't respond. Not because her words mean anything—they don't—but because I already know what I vaguely look like. I've heard it before.
Gaunt. Pale. Shadowed.
A face untouched by light, even more so than the everyday person in the slums.
Maybe, in a world where everyone else is finally allowed to see, I am the only thing that still belongs in the dark.
A sudden, piercing wail cuts through the slums.
The siren.
The moment it sounds, the air shifts. The light that once filled the slums—the brief, stolen moment of beauty, of clarity—means nothing now.
I feel Eda stiffen beside me. The people around us freeze for half a breath before the weight of reality slams back down on them. Their shoulders hunch, their gazes lower, and just like that, the wonder from moments ago is gone.
It is time to work.
The mines. The factories. The endless, grueling labor that keeps the Length District running.
This is why they give us light—so we can serve them. So we can work without stumbling, without excuse. They allow us to see, but only for as long as we are useful.
All around us, I hear people begin to move. Some trudge toward the transport lines leading to the mines, their hands already stained with the soot of past shifts. Others march toward the roads that lead to the Length District, where they will serve in their masters' homes, invisible ghosts cleaning the estates of the wealthy.
No one resists. No one protests.
This is the way it has always been.
Eda huffs, crossing her arms. "Funny, isn't it?" Her voice is sharp now, tinged with something bitter. "They let us see just so we can break our backs for them."
I stay silent. There's nothing to say.
She looks at me, her expression hardening. "You going?"
I adjust my blindfold. "Do I have a choice?"
She sighs. "Guess not."
The slums empty as its people scatter to their assigned stations. And once again, the light is not ours to keep.
As the people shuffle toward their assignments, I turn my head to Eda. "Where are they sending you this time?"
She rolls her eyes, kicking a loose rock down the cracked street. "Dunno. Probably back to the District again. Cleaning their fancy houses. Serving their spoiled brats. Pretending I don't exist while they eat food I'll never taste." She exhales sharply. "Same old."
I nod. "Could be worse."
She smirks. "Like the mines?"
I grunt. She already knows the answer.
The mines are the worst of them all. Deep beneath the earth, where the light barely reaches. Where the air is thick with dust and the walls seem to close in on you. It's the kind of work that breaks a man—physically, mentally. And today, it's my turn.
Eda leans in, hands on her hips. "You sure you'll be okay down there, Mister I-Can't-See-Color?"
"I'll survive."
"You better. If you die in some hole, I'm not dragging your corpse out." She tilts her head. "Actually… maybe I would. Just to prop you up somewhere and freak people out."
I shake my head, already turning toward the transport station. "You're a menace."
"And you're no fun." She takes a step back, her usual grin faltering just a little. "Stay out of trouble, okay?"
"No promises."
She snorts. "Didn't think so."
The slums continue to empty as we go our separate ways. She vanishes toward the transport leading to the Length District, while I follow the line of workers headed toward the mines.
Down into the darkness.
Where I belong.