The boy sat on the edge of the world.
That's what it felt like anyway, perched on the jagged lip of an unfinished high-rise. His legs dangled over open air, sneakers scuffed to hell, soles peeling, one sharp gust away from falling apart. The city stretched below him, endless veins of neon and steel glowing in the dark. From up here, the streets didn't look like streets. They looked alive.
The wind howled around the skeleton of the skyscraper, tugging at his hoodie until it puffed out like a parachute. It was three sizes too big, swallowing his narrow frame, making him look smaller than he already was. His hair, dark brown and wild, whipped across his forehead and stuck out in messy spikes. He didn't care. Never did.
Hazel eyes locked on the city below, bright even with the weariness behind them. A cracked pair of headphones bled heavy bass into his ears. The sound rattled through his skull, muffling the world. But not enough to drown out the crunch of chips between his teeth.
He ate slow. Deliberate. Every bite of the half-crushed bag felt like a ritual. Dinner, maybe breakfast too. Nothing fancy—just something he'd pried out of a vending machine earlier when no one was watching. For most people, chips were nothing. For him, they were everything.
Fifteen years old, and he couldn't even remember the last time he ate like a normal kid. Hunger had been his only loyal companion. It carved him thin, left his body bony and brittle, like he was one bad day away from snapping in two.
Every few minutes, he slipped a hand into his hoodie pocket and dragged out his phone. The screen was a spiderweb of cracks, glass threatening to cave in with every swipe. Still worked, somehow. He'd thumb across the fractured glow, wait for something to appear—maybe a message, maybe a miracle. Nothing ever came. It never did.
When silence got too heavy, his thoughts dragged him backward. Always to the same house. The one that was supposed to be home.
It looked perfect from the outside. White walls, green lawn, smiles painted for the neighbors. Inside, it was rotten. The kind of rot you couldn't see, only feel. Hypocrisy in every corner.
His siblings sat at the table like royalty, plates stacked with food. He got scraps—if that. Clothes? Hand-me-downs two sizes too big, stained with someone else's sweat. Shoes so worn that strangers sometimes mistook him for a homeless kid on the street. It hurt because they weren't far off.
School wasn't better. Lunch trays cost money, and money wasn't for him. Watching the others eat while his stomach screamed was a normal day. Being invisible was normal. Being unwanted was normal.
Sometimes the storm inside him cracked through. He'd corner his mother, his father, demand answers. Why him? Why always him?
The answers never changed."You should be thankful. Stop being entitled."
The words hit harder than fists. Over and over until they didn't mean anything anymore. By fourteen, he'd stopped asking. Stopped hoping. Hope was just another way to get burned.
And then came the day everything broke.
Half a year ago, he walked into the house earlier than usual. Voices drifted from the living room. He froze. His mother's voice carried first, sharp, bitter.
"The money we got for taking that kid in is running out. Should we ask for more?"
The boy's blood went cold.
His father answered, voice low, uneasy."Not wise. They'll get suspicious."
A scoff, then his mother again."Well, in a few months she'll come to take him. We'll get a great settlement at that time."
There was a smirk in her words. He could hear it.
A sigh followed. "Keep your voice down, woman."
He didn't remember leaving the house. One moment he was frozen in the hallway, the next he was stumbling through the city, finding himself in the ruins of some construction site. Hours passed with him sitting in the dirt, mind blank, chest hollow.
Everything made sense now.
The neglect. The favoritism. The hunger. The fists of his older brother. The way he never fit.
He wasn't theirs. Not really. They hadn't raised him—they'd caged him. Fed him just enough to keep him alive. Someone else, some faceless woman, had been paying them to keep him breathing.
The thought broke him in half. He laughed until it hurt. Or maybe he cried. Couldn't tell the difference. The sound cracked into a scream that ripped from his throat, raw and violent, echoing off the empty streets. It wasn't the cry of a boy anymore. It was the roar of an animal finally cornered.
From that night, something in him froze solid. His parents tried to patch it with food, with fake apologies, but it was too late. He wasn't theirs. He wasn't anyone's.
He even stopped using his name. It tasted rotten.
In the months that followed, he found new ways to survive. Odd jobs, scraps of cash. No school lunches, no birthday dinners. Just hustling where he could, learning from the people who actually ran the city—the gangs, the shadows, the ones who lived by their own rules. They taught him to blend, to move silent, to see the world the way it really worked.
The change rattled his fake father. Fear crept into the man's eyes. Fear of what would happen when the mysterious benefactor showed up. Fear of losing control.
A few days ago, the man tried to reel him back in. Tried to put the leash on again. The argument ended in screams, curses, poison thrown across the room. That was the last time the boy set foot in that house.
Now he lived in the bones of the city. Steel skeletons. Empty towers. Rooftops where nobody could reach him. Every scrap of money went into something vital: a forged ID card. Everyone needed one when they turned fifteen. For him, it wasn't about law. It was about disappearing.
A new name. A new life. No more chains.
They had nearly broken him. Nearly pushed him to the edge of ending it all. But they didn't get to win. Not them. Not the faceless woman who paid for him. Nobody.
He chose his own name. Micah. Simple. His.
Everything started when he turned fifteen. Everything started the day of the Trial of Will and Might.
And while Micah sat on that ledge, tasting freedom in the cold night air, his fake family was unraveling.
The house shook with screaming.
Karmen—his false mother—paced the living room like a cornered animal, voice shrill with panic. "It's your fault! Why did you fight with him? Why couldn't you just keep quiet?"
Her husband slammed his fist against the table hard enough to rattle the dishes. "My fault? You're the one who kept starving him! Who never left him a damn penny!"
Her face twisted. "You bastard—"
"You witch—" he snapped back.
Their oldest son leaned against the wall, arms folded, bored eyes rolling. "Why are you freaking out? The brat was never our problem to begin with."
The words cut through the room like a knife. Both parents froze, staring at him.
"You fool," Karmen hissed, voice low and venomous. "You don't understand. If she finds out, we're finished."
The father's rage drained, leaving only dread. His voice shook. "She won't just punish us. She'll erase us. Everything we have. Everything we are. Gone."
The son frowned, still clueless. "Who the hell is she?"
Before either parent could answer, the house filled with sound.
Bells. Deep, metallic, resonant. Not the kind that belonged to any church.
The three of them froze. Panic drained the blood from their faces.
The father stumbled to the intercom, finger trembling as he pressed the button. "H-Hello?"
The screen flickered to life.
His eyes went wide. His face went white.
Whatever he saw on the other side, it was enough to strip the soul from his body.