The first light of morning slipped through the thin curtain and struck a face on the bed like a narrow blade. It landed squarely on Elio. The warmth that had kept him easy through the night now pressed at his cheek, a small, insistent heat. He rolled to the other side to escape the beam.
He wanted a few more minutes, but his eyes had already opened. Lying awake served no purpose—especially when there was work. After a short tangle with the blankets he pushed himself up, the quilt sliding off his shoulders in a soft rustle.
Out of the corner of his eye he checked his sister. Mika slept on like something out of a quiet picture, breath light, lashes still. His moving had shaken the mattress enough to lift her toward waking; she made a small sound and rolled the other way, but didn't come up out of sleep.
What a luxury, to sleep in when you've got nothing pulling you out of bed.
He didn't have that luxury. He raised his head and looked at the wall clock. The minute hand hovered near the twelve; it was almost seven. Work started at seven-thirty.
He swung his legs over the side and rose, careful in the cramped space. There was barely thirty centimeters between their mattresses; they slept side by side because the one room had to be everything—living room and bedroom both. He shifted his weight and stepped past the edge of Mika's bedding with a small, practiced twist, making sure not to catch a toe on her covers. Then he slipped into the bathroom.
Cold water brought him the rest of the way awake. He splashed his face, wiped the drops with his palms, took care of the rest quickly, and changed in fast, efficient movements. The less time he burned, the better. If he was late, the site supervisor would have words.
He moved to the kitchenette. He cracked four eggs into a pan kissed with a little oil and worked the heat high. The whites took first, then the yolks. He cut a tomato in quick slices and slid two eggs onto his plate. He tore a heel of bread from the loaf and ate standing, fast bites, no ceremony.
The other two eggs he laid on a second plate. That would be Mika's breakfast.
He grabbed his jacket, then his shoes, and went to the door with a rush of motion that gathered everything and left nothing rattling. In another breath he was outside and gone.
Most days, Elio spent almost all of his time at the site. From seven-thirty until the light bled out around six, it was lift and carry, brace and bolt, measure and move. It was hard, and on top of that he had his sister to think about. Keeping this routine running felt like pushing a loaded cart up a hill that never leveled out.
He was lucky in one way—the site supervisor wasn't merciless. Elio had permission to go home during the lunch break to check on Mika. He usually hit the market on the way, grabbed something ready to eat, and then took the quickest line back to the apartment. They ate together, said what needed saying, and then he cut the distance the other way, back to the site before the whistle. It worked because the two places were close. On a good day he could cover it in ten, maybe fifteen minutes—sometimes walking fast, sometimes jogging, heel to toe down the same stretches of street he knew in his sleep.
It wasn't easy. But for now, it was how the days held together.
Elio ran with his breath coming short and fast, the air scraping his throat a little with each pull. Empty streets slid past—one block, then another—buildings and shuttered storefronts rolling by like a quiet backdrop. On most mornings at this hour the city hummed: students hustling toward school, adults dragging themselves to work, engines coughing and the air thick with exhaust. Today was Saturday. The sidewalks felt hollow. Doors stayed closed. While everyone else slept warm behind curtains, Elio belonged to the unlucky slice who worked through their days off.
He cut across the corner of one street, pounded down the next, and turned again. By the third block his legs were hot and steady, his breath evening out into a rhythm he knew. The site came into view at the end of the road.
He slowed as he reached the gate, trying to settle his breathing before anyone made a joke about it. A four-story skeleton stood inside the fencing—floors poured, columns up, the rest still ribs and bone. Iron guard rails boxed the lot. The ground was a patchwork of trampled sand and hardened trowel marks, with piles of brick here, a slump of cement bags there, and the usual trail of scraps and offcuts that followed any job. Nothing special. It was a site, the same as a hundred others.
Near the corner, just inside the fence, someone had set a plastic table and a handful of plastic chairs. Four men sat there. Three were familiar: the foreman, and two of Elio's coworkers. The fourth had his back to the gate.
New guy? The thought flicked by as Elio drew closer.
Even from behind, the man stood out. A dark green padded jacket broadened an already wide back. Gray work pants. Yellow work boots planted flat. He looked built from thicker stock than the rest of them, the kind of frame that made tools look smaller in the hand.
Elio stepped through the gate and angled toward the table. Chairs scraped. The men rose.
When the newcomer stood, his height unfolded to full, impossible size. Elio had to tilt his chin up to take him in. For a ridiculous beat he had the sense that if you stacked two of himself, they might just reach the man's head.
The man turned.
Only then did the missing part become obvious—something Elio hadn't caught from the angle at first. The left shoulder wasn't there. Not the arm that should have followed it, either. Where there should have been mass and muscle was a clean absence under the jacket's line.
Elio kept walking, slower now.
The foreman spotted him and lifted his chin. "Hey, Elio!" He shoved his sleeve back to the wrist, exposing a dull metal watch face, and checked the time with theatrical care. "You're late! Your home's five minutes away. Why are you always late?!"
The bite in his voice was familiar. It was the foreman's default setting—sharp, exasperated, the same tone every foreman in Elio's life seemed to be born with.
Elio rubbed the back of his head, a sheepish grin pulling at his mouth. "Hehe… I gave it an inhuman effort not to be late, boss, but it didn't work."
A vein stood out on the foreman's forehead. "I'll give you an inhuman flying kick. Then you won't have to come to work ever again."
Same volume as always, same threat as always. Elio let it roll past and nodded toward the giant beside him. "Boss, who's this?"
The big man had already turned, attention shifting to Elio.
"This?" the foreman said. "This is our new laborer—Kael."