The voices came before the images.
Low at first. Distorted. As if they were echoing through water.
Teïkõ stood still, his feet planted on cold ground he could not recognize. The air felt dense, heavy, pressing against his lungs. He knew, instinctively, that he was small again. Too small for what was happening in front of him.
Two men faced each other.
One of them was his father.
He stood straight, shoulders tense but controlled, eyes steady despite the storm gathering between them. There was no fear in his posture—only exhaustion, and something deeper: disappointment.
The other man was Tiger.
Even without fully seeing his face, Teïkõ felt him. His presence was overwhelming, like standing too close to an open flame. There was a violent energy around him, invisible yet undeniable, twisting the air itself.
"You've already gone too far," his father said. His voice was firm, but there was an edge to it now. "This has to stop."
Tiger laughed.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't exaggerated. It was quiet—and that made it worse.
"Too far?" Tiger replied. "You think I can just stop now?"
"You can," his father answered immediately. "Whatever you're chasing, it isn't worth this."
Tiger stepped forward. The ground beneath his foot cracked slightly, thin fractures spreading like veins.
"You have no idea how much I've sacrificed," Tiger said. "How much I've lost. I didn't come this far to turn back."
"There are limits," his father said. "Power taken by force always demands more. First it's others. Then it's yourself."
Tiger's eyes narrowed.
"That's the price," he snapped. "Sacrifice is the foundation of strength. The weak complain about it. The strong accept it."
Teïkõ felt his chest tighten. Something inside him recoiled at those words, even though he didn't fully understand why.
"I won't let you drag my family into this," his father said, stepping between Tiger and Teïkõ.
For the first time, Tiger smiled.
A slow, sharp smile.
"You already did."
The air shattered.
A violent force erupted between them. Teïkõ was thrown backward, his body hitting the ground hard. The world spun. Light and darkness collided in front of him, waves of energy crashing like invisible storms.
He tried to scream. Tried to move.
He couldn't.
The pressure was unbearable. The sound—like reality itself tearing apart—filled his ears.
"STOP!" he screamed, his voice breaking.
The darkness surged—
—
Teïkõ bolted upright with a sharp cry.
"No—!"
His breath came in gasps, his heart pounding so violently it hurt. Sweat clung to his skin, soaking his clothes, his hair plastered to his forehead.
The room was dark.
Silent.
Real.
"Teïkõ!"
Simon's voice cut through the haze. The mattress beside him creaked as Simon sat up, blinking rapidly, panic already in his eyes.
"What—what happened?" Simon asked, scrambling out of bed. He moved quickly, kneeling beside Teïkõ without hesitation.
Teïkõ's hands were shaking.
"I—" His voice failed him. He swallowed, forcing air into his lungs. "I saw them."
Simon didn't ask who.
He placed a steady hand on Teïkõ's shoulder, grounding him.
"It's okay," Simon said softly. "It's just another nightmare."
Teïkõ squeezed his eyes shut, trying to erase the image of Tiger's smile burned into his mind.
"They were fighting," he whispered. "It felt… real."
Simon nodded slowly. "Yeah. You used to have these a lot. Back when we were still at the orphanage."
That sentence anchored him.
Back then.
A time that existed. A time that proved this moment wasn't reality.
Teïkõ's breathing slowly steadied.
"I'm sorry," he said after a moment. "I woke you."
Simon shrugged, forcing a small smile. "Better me than the whole building."
Teïkõ lay back down, staring at the ceiling long after Simon returned to his bed.
Sleep didn't come easily.
—
Time passed.
Not in a dramatic way. Not marked by events or revelations.
It passed quietly.
Days turned into weeks. Weeks into months.
No one came.
At first, they told themselves it was temporary.
"They'll be back," Simon said more than once. "They have to come back."
Teïkõ believed him. Or at least, he wanted to.
He kept track of the days in his head. Measured time by meals, by sunlight through the windows, by how quickly their supplies disappeared.
Marc was the first to say it out loud.
"They're not coming."
The words landed heavily in the common room.
Simon stood up immediately. "That's not true."
Marc didn't raise his voice. He didn't argue.
He just looked tired.
"They would've come by now," Marc said. "Or sent someone. Or at least left a message."
Yurim said nothing. He stared at the floor, arms crossed.
William shifted uncomfortably. "Maybe something happened."
"Something always happens," Marc replied. "That doesn't mean we disappear."
Silence followed.
"Three more days," Teïkõ said suddenly.
Everyone looked at him.
"Let us wait three more days," he continued. "If nothing changes… then we accept it."
Simon nodded immediately. "Yeah. Three days."
They held on to that number like a lifeline.
They rationed what little food was left. Cans. Crackers. Water.
Hunger crept in quietly at first. Then it stayed.
By the third day, their stomachs hurt constantly. The house felt emptier. Colder.
The voices came before the images.
Low at first. Distorted. As if they were echoing through water.
Teïkõ stood still, his feet planted on cold ground he could not recognize. The air felt dense, heavy, pressing against his lungs. He knew, instinctively, that he was small again. Too small for what was happening in front of him.
Two men faced each other.
One of them was his father.
He stood straight, shoulders tense but controlled, eyes steady despite the storm gathering between them. There was no fear in his posture—only exhaustion, and something deeper: disappointment.
The other man was Tiger.
Even without fully seeing his face, Teïkõ felt him. His presence was overwhelming, like standing too close to an open flame. There was a violent energy around him, invisible yet undeniable, twisting the air itself.
"You've already gone too far," his father said. His voice was firm, but there was an edge to it now. "This has to stop."
Tiger laughed.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't exaggerated. It was quiet—and that made it worse.
"Too far?" Tiger replied. "You think I can just stop now?"
"You can," his father answered immediately. "Whatever you're chasing, it isn't worth this."
Tiger stepped forward. The ground beneath his foot cracked slightly, thin fractures spreading like veins.
"You have no idea how much I've sacrificed," Tiger said. "How much I've lost. I didn't come this far to turn back."
"There are limits," his father said. "Power taken by force always demands more. First it's others. Then it's yourself."
Tiger's eyes narrowed.
"That's the price," he snapped. "Sacrifice is the foundation of strength. The weak complain about it. The strong accept it."
Teïkõ felt his chest tighten. Something inside him recoiled at those words, even though he didn't fully understand why.
"I won't let you drag my family into this," his father said, stepping between Tiger and Teïkõ.
For the first time, Tiger smiled.
A slow, sharp smile.
"You already did."
The air shattered.
A violent force erupted between them. Teïkõ was thrown backward, his body hitting the ground hard. The world spun. Light and darkness collided in front of him, waves of energy crashing like invisible storms.
He tried to scream. Tried to move.
He couldn't.
The pressure was unbearable. The sound—like reality itself tearing apart—filled his ears.
"STOP!" he screamed, his voice breaking.
The darkness surged—
—
Teïkõ bolted upright with a sharp cry.
"No—!"
His breath came in gasps, his heart pounding so violently it hurt. Sweat clung to his skin, soaking his clothes, his hair plastered to his forehead.
The room was dark.
Silent.
Real.
"Teïkõ!"
Simon's voice cut through the haze. The mattress beside him creaked as Simon sat up, blinking rapidly, panic already in his eyes.
"What—what happened?" Simon asked, scrambling out of bed. He moved quickly, kneeling beside Teïkõ without hesitation.
Teïkõ's hands were shaking.
"I—" His voice failed him. He swallowed, forcing air into his lungs. "I saw them."
Simon didn't ask who.
He placed a steady hand on Teïkõ's shoulder, grounding him.
"It's okay," Simon said softly. "It's just another nightmare."
Teïkõ squeezed his eyes shut, trying to erase the image of Tiger's smile burned into his mind.
"They were fighting," he whispered. "It felt… real."
Simon nodded slowly. "Yeah. You used to have these a lot. Back when we were still at the orphanage."
That sentence anchored him.
Back then.
A time that existed. A time that proved this moment wasn't reality.
Teïkõ's breathing slowly steadied.
"I'm sorry," he said after a moment. "I woke you."
Simon shrugged, forcing a small smile. "Better me than the whole building."
Teïkõ lay back down, staring at the ceiling long after Simon returned to his bed.
Sleep didn't come easily.
—
Time passed.
Not in a dramatic way. Not marked by events or revelations.
It passed quietly.
Days turned into weeks. Weeks into months.
No one came.
At first, they told themselves it was temporary.
"They'll be back," Simon said more than once. "They have to come back."
Teïkõ believed him. Or at least, he wanted to.
He kept track of the days in his head. Measured time by meals, by sunlight through the windows, by how quickly their supplies disappeared.
Marc was the first to say it out loud.
"They're not coming."
The words landed heavily in the common room.
Simon stood up immediately. "That's not true."
Marc didn't raise his voice. He didn't argue.
He just looked tired.
"They would've come by now," Marc said. "Or sent someone. Or at least left a message."
Yurim said nothing. He stared at the floor, arms crossed.
William shifted uncomfortably. "Maybe something happened."
"Something always happens," Marc replied. "That doesn't mean we disappear."
Silence followed.
"Three more days," Teïkõ said suddenly.
Everyone looked at him.
"Let us wait three more days," he continued. "If nothing changes… then we accept it."
Simon nodded immediately. "Yeah. Three days."
They held on to that number like a lifeline.
They rationed what little food was left. Cans. Crackers. Water.
Hunger crept in quietly at first. Then it stayed.
By the third day, their stomachs hurt constantly. The house felt emptier. Colder.
No one came.
They waited until late afternoon.
Not because it was safer, but because hunger had a way of making time stretch. Every minute felt heavier than the last. The residence was quiet, too quiet, as if the walls themselves were listening to their stomachs growl.
Marc was the one who broke the silence.
"We steal."
The word fell into the room like a stone dropped in water.
William's head snapped up immediately.
"W-what?"
"We steal food," Marc repeated, his voice firm this time. "There's no other option."
Simon stood up so fast his chair scraped the floor.
"No. That's stupid. We'll get caught."
"And then what?" Marc shot back. "We just sit here and starve politely?"
Teïkõ said nothing. He felt the argument pressing against his chest, tight and uncomfortable. He didn't like the idea. Every instinct told him it was wrong. But the dull ache in his stomach answered for him.
Yurim, who had been sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, finally spoke.
"I stopped waiting for adults a while ago," he said calmly. "Hope doesn't feed you. A plan might."
Everyone turned toward him.
"If we're going to do this," Yurim continued, "we don't rush. We don't panic. And we don't all go inside."
William swallowed hard.
"I don't want to go to jail…"
Yurim looked at him, not unkindly.
"If the owner wanted us arrested, we'd already be there. That shop has alarms. Trust me."
That didn't reassure William at all.
Still, one by one, they nodded.
Not because they wanted to.
Because they had to.
—
They prepared in silence.
Old backpacks. Caps pulled low. Hoodies zipped up despite the mild weather. Cloth masks tied clumsily around their faces. They looked ridiculous—five kids pretending to be criminals—but none of them laughed.
The Casino Shop stood a few blocks away, its flickering sign buzzing softly. Teïkõ had been there before. It smelled like sugar, oil, and dust. Ordinary. Too ordinary for what they were about to do.
Yurim crouched near the corner of the street and pointed.
"Simon. William. You stay outside. If anything looks wrong, you whistle. Short and sharp."
Simon frowned.
"And if someone comes out?"
"Run," Yurim answered without hesitation.
Teïkõ's heart was pounding now. He could hear it in his ears.
Yurim adjusted his cap.
"Marc. Teïkõ. Follow me."
The bell above the door rang as they stepped inside.
Teïkõ's senses sharpened instantly.
The store was narrow, shelves packed too tightly together. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Behind the counter stood the manager and his wife, sorting receipts and arguing quietly about inventory.
Normal.
Too normal.
Yurim didn't hesitate.
He went straight to the row of shopping carts near the entrance—connected together with a thick metal chain and a cheap locking device. From his pocket, he pulled out several small bolts he had taken from the residence's broken furniture.
Teïkõ watched, frozen, as Yurim shoved the bolts into the locking mechanism.
One push.
A sharp metallic crack.
The chain snapped loose.
Yurim shoved the carts forward.
Chaos exploded instantly.
The carts rolled apart in every direction, crashing into shelves. Bags of rice split open. Cans clattered to the floor. A tower of instant noodles collapsed like a waterfall.
"What the—?!" the manager shouted.
His wife screamed.
They rushed forward, trying desperately to stop the mess, tripping over fallen items, shouting at each other in panic.
That was the signal.
Marc grabbed Teïkõ's sleeve.
"Now!"
They moved fast.
Too fast to think.
Teïkõ's hands acted on instinct—bread, canned food, dried meat, anything that didn't break easily. Marc was the same, sweeping items into his bag with frightening efficiency.
Teïkõ's chest burned. Every second felt too loud. The sound of his own breathing felt like it could give them away.
"Enough," Marc whispered urgently.
Their bags were heavy now, straps digging into their shoulders.
Yurim glanced back, nodded once.
They ran.
The bell rang again as they burst out of the store.
"HEY—!"
The manager's voice cut through the air.
Teïkõ didn't look back.
Marc did.
And he stopped.
Just for a second.
Just long enough.
"Marc!" Simon hissed from the sidewalk.
The manager had followed them outside. He wasn't shouting anymore.
He was breathing hard.
He stared at Marc's back.
"I know you," he said slowly.
Marc froze.
"You're a good kid," the man continued. "You always were."
Marc's shoulders trembled.
"If you're doing this," the manager said, softer now, "then something's wrong. But don't come back here without money."
Silence.
A tear slid down Marc's cheek and fell to the pavement.
"I'm sorry," Marc whispered.
Then he ran.
They didn't stop until their lungs burned and their legs shook.
—
Back at the residence, they collapsed onto the floor.
William was pacing in circles.
"We're dead. We're actually dead."
Yurim unzipped his bag calmly.
"If he wanted to call the police, he would've done it already."
Marc wiped his eyes roughly.
"He knew it was me."
Teïkõ sat beside him.
"Why did you stop?" he asked quietly.
Marc didn't answer right away.
"Because he treated me like a human," he finally said. "And that hurt more than being yelled at."
No one spoke after that.
They laid out the food on the table.
It wasn't much.
But it was enough.
They ate slowly, savoring every bite. For the first time in days, the ache in their stomachs faded.
That night, exhaustion pulled them into sleep quickly.
Outside, the city went on as if nothing had happened.
Inside, five children slept—fed, safe for now, and carrying a weight they hadn't had before.
The weight of survival.