He woke before the sun.
Not because he had rested well, but because his body had learned— with unsettling speed —that deep sleep was a risk. He opened his eyes in the dark without moving, listening. The wind slipped through the cabin's cracks with a low, almost human whistle. Somewhere in the distance, something fell — wood, maybe metal — followed by a short, dry laugh.
He waited.
No sound came from the entrance.
The improvised trap remained silent.
Only then did he allow himself to breathe deeply and move. His head still throbbed, but now the pain was more a constant weight than a threat. He brought his hand to the already dried cut, feeling the rough scab beneath his fingers. It wasn't infected. Not yet.
He sat up slowly.
The cabin was too small for comfort, too large to fully hide in. An irregular rectangle of old wood, reused roofing tiles, and pieces of tarp stitched together by force. The floor was packed dirt, compressed by years of footsteps. Every object there had been placed with intention, even if everything now felt displaced.
He checked the entrance.
The wire was still in place. The dented can too. No vibration, no sign that anyone had approached while he slept. That didn't mean safety — only a lack of curiosity, for now.
He stepped outside.
The outskirts were still asleep, but never in complete silence. There was always someone awake. Always someone guarding something they couldn't afford to lose. Weak fires resisted the dawn. An old man, bent far beyond what his age should have allowed, stirred a small pot, his face marked by old scars that seemed deeper in the low light.
The children were there.
Not all of them, but enough to remind him that the territory was not abandoned. Some slept together, wrapped in dirty cloths, shielding each other from the cold. Others were awake, seated at strategic points — crates, broken steps, low walls. None looked younger than seven. None looked older than twelve.
Their eyes followed everything.
He didn't feel hostility. He felt calculation.
He circled the cabin slowly, observing marks on the ground, old mixed footprints, discarded food scraps. Nothing new. Nothing recent. The world had not moved toward him during the night.
That gave him time.
But time without resources only prolonged the inevitable.
The predecessor's memories organized themselves when he thought about solutions. They didn't surface as a voice, nor as a precise mental map. They were more like reflexes — vague certainties, paths that "made sense" without demanding logical justification.
The port.
He knew, without knowing how, that it was where everything converged. Where labor, violence, money, and information met. Where a nameless man could disappear… or fit in.
He walked.
As he moved away from the outskirts, the environment shifted almost imperceptibly. The streets grew narrower, but more crowded. The houses taller, stacked atop one another, creating permanent shadows even after sunrise. Ropes crossed the alleys like webs, holding clothes, nets, improvised signs.
The bodies changed.
In the outskirts, people were thin, angular, bones visible beneath the skin. As he advanced, bodies became denser. Broad shoulders. Thick arms. Hands calloused from carrying real weight every day. The kind of strength that doesn't come from training, but from brutal repetition.
The smell changed too.
Fresh fish mixed with rotting fish. Salt, oil, sweat, dried blood. The air felt heavier, as if breathing required more effort.
When the port finally opened before him, the sensation was like stepping into something alive.
Ships filled the horizon like giant carcasses. Some well maintained, with fresh paint and new ropes. Others grotesquely patched together, planks of different colors, visible scars from old impacts. Men moved across them with unsettling ease, balancing on unstable surfaces as if they were extensions of their own bodies.
He slowed his pace.
Observed.
A massive, shirtless sailor — broad back covered in sun marks and poorly healed scars — carried a barrel alone, one that would normally require two men. His muscles contracted with each step, veins bulging along thick arms. He passed another sailor, shorter, wearing a filthy blue bandana and an open leather vest that revealed a lean, resilient body.
"This is going to sink if it keeps like this," the shirtless man said, his voice deep, almost a growl.
"It sinks later," replied the one with the bandana, smiling crookedly. "Today it just needs to float."
Further ahead, three men talked near a stack of crates. One had an eye covered by a dark cloth, a graying beard reaching his chest. Another limped visibly, shifting his weight onto a shorter leg. The third was too young to be there, but had the look of someone who had already seen enough.
"It's tonight," said the man with the covered eye, voice low. "Dry tide alley."
"Kids?" the limping man asked, spitting on the ground.
"Kids."
The youngest said nothing. He only nodded.
He didn't need to hear more.
He kept walking.
Gambling dens occupied entire alleys. Improvised tables made of warped planks, worn dice, grease-stained cards. A man painfully thin, almost skeletal, dealt pieces with fingers too quick, his wide smile revealing yellowed teeth. Beside him stood a woman with rigid posture, hair pulled tight, watching everything in absolute silence. Her hand never strayed far from the short knife at her waist.
"Last round before dark," someone announced.
People gathered. Others pulled away, counting coins, faces tense.
He noticed something important: no one played for fun. They played for chance. For desperation. For a possible leap out of the pit — even if most only fell deeper.
The sun began to sink slowly.
He stayed at the port until nightfall, observing the changes. How groups reorganized. How certain faces vanished while others appeared. How the atmosphere grew heavier, denser, as if something were about to happen.
When the sky fully darkened, he heard the whispers again.
"Has it started?"
"Not yet."
"Heard one of them won't make it past the first exchange."
He followed the sound.
He didn't get too close.
The alley was narrow, lit only by weak torches fixed to damp walls. People gathered, forming an irregular circle. The smell there was different — less salt, more iron. Fresh blood.
At the center, two children.
One was smaller, far too thin, ribs visible beneath the skin. His face was swollen from old beatings, one eye nearly shut. The other was bigger, broader, shoulders slumped, hands too large for his age. His fists were clenched, knuckles pale.
There was no referee.
Only expectation.
He didn't stay to watch.
He turned away before the first blow was thrown. Not out of pity — that word felt inadequate in that place — but because he had already understood enough. This wasn't an exception. It was structure.
When he finally left the port, night had fully settled. The walk back felt longer. The streets were quieter, but not safer. Eyes watched from the shadows. Footsteps echoed behind him, then vanished.
The outskirts received him again.
The children were there, but fewer now. Some had returned with food. Others with fresh injuries. All with the same attentive gaze.
He entered the cabin.
The trap was still intact.
He sat on the ground, back against the wall. His body ached. His mind weighed even more. He had the panorama. A clear understanding of how that world functioned.
Now all that remained was deciding how to survive within it.
He closed his eyes.
The night pressed on.
And the world would not wait for him.