I don't remember exactly when I started counting the days differently.
Before, I counted in mornings and nights. Now, I count in empty stomachs, in heartbeats that go too fast, in glances exchanged without speaking. The days pass, yes, but they all slide over one another—sticky, heavy, identical. We steal. We eat. We hide. We repeat.
At first, stealing from passersby made me sick.
I would look at their bags, their pockets, their distracted hands, and tell myself they probably had someone waiting for them somewhere. A home. A light turned on. A warm plate of food. Then I would think about us. About the silent residence. The empty cupboards. Simon forcing himself to laugh so he doesn't think. Teïkō talking about tomorrow as if tomorrow still exists. And then my hands would move on their own.
I don't like it.
But I've stopped hating it as much.
That day, I was walking alone.
Not because I liked being alone, but because sometimes you need someone to listen while the others keep watch. Marc had gone to check whether the southern streets were still safe. The others were waiting farther away, in the shade, near a wall covered in faded graffiti. I had said I'd take a walk. No one protested. They know I hear things. That I notice what others miss.
The sun was high, but the air was dirty, thick, as if it refused to enter the lungs. The city's noises blended together—engines, voices, hurried footsteps—but beneath all that, there were always silences. Cracks. That's where the truth hides.
I was walking along a sidewalk when I heard them.
Two men's voices. Not loud. Urgent. Like they didn't want to be heard.
I stopped dead.
"I'm telling you it's safe," said the first. His voice was deep, rough, with that forced confidence of people who are trying to convince themselves as much as others.
"You always say that," replied the other. Younger. More nervous. "Last time, we almost got caught."
I didn't move. I only turned my head slightly, as if I were looking at something else. My feet edged closer to the wall. I pretended to be a kid waiting for someone.
"It's not the same," the first continued. "This one's hidden. An old warehouse. Nobody goes there. I'm telling you, we found money. Real money. The crew already took some."
My heart skipped a beat.
A warehouse.
"Then why are you still hesitating?" the other asked.
"Because too much money attracts trouble," he answered after a short pause. "But if we go back one last time…"
I barely heard the rest. One word had started echoing in my head, over and over.
Warehouse.
My mind made the connection before I could stop it.
An old warehouse. Abandoned. Nobody goes there.
A place where Marc and I had once hidden.
A dark, damp place that smelled of rust and dust.
A place I had never forgotten.
A shiver ran down my spine.
They kept talking, giving details without realizing it. A street. A corner. A twisted fence. With every word, the image in my head became clearer. Too clear.
It's the same one, I told myself. It has to be the same one.
I slowly stepped back, looking for a patch of shadow. I wanted to listen longer, to understand exactly where, how, when. But my foot hit something.
A sharp sound.
A metallic clink.
Time froze.
"Who's there?" one of the men shouted.
My blood turned to ice.
I didn't think. I didn't breathe. I just moved.
One of the men stepped forward, and I saw the dark shape in his hand. A gun. Not big. Not shiny. But a gun all the same. Enough to kill. Enough to destroy everything we had left.
"Show yourself!" he yelled.
At that exact moment, something moved near my feet.
A rat.
Big. Dirty. Fast.
I flinched despite myself. My heart exploded in my chest. The rat bolted, rattling an old can that rolled across the ground.
"There!" the other man shouted.
It was over.
I turned around and ran.
Not like when you play. Not like when you run from a dog. I ran as if my legs no longer belonged to me, as if my body had understood before my mind that staying meant dying. The air burned my lungs. The ground felt unstable beneath my feet.
"Come back here!"
"He's getting away!"
I didn't look back.
The sounds blurred together. Voices. Footsteps. The whole world shrank down to a single thing: move forward. Turn. Don't fall. Don't scream.
I dove into a narrow alley, knocked over a crate, felt my skin scrape against a wall. I kept going. Again. Still. Until my legs were shaking, until silence returned.
I hid behind a dumpster, doubled over, hands clamped over my mouth to stifle my breathing. My heart was beating so hard I was afraid they would hear it.
A long moment passed.
Then nothing.
When I finally dared to lift my head, the street was empty.
I was shaking.
Not from the cold. From everything else.
I had just understood something fundamental.
We weren't playing at surviving anymore.
Somewhere, in a forgotten warehouse, there was money. And where there is money, there are weapons. Men. Irreversible choices.
And me—Yurim—I had stumbled onto it by accident.
I stood up slowly.
I had to warn the others.
And more than that…
we had to decide what to do with this information.
Because from now on, every step could cost us our lives.
I didn't stop running right away.
Even when the voices were gone, even when my legs started to burn, I kept going. As if stopping would let everything I had heard catch up to me. As if slowing down would be enough to make that man reappear—his stare, the gun in his hand.
I slipped into a narrow alley, so tight my shoulders brushed the walls. The smell hit me instantly: dampness, garbage, something rotten. I almost slipped on a dark puddle, caught myself on the wall, my palm scraped raw against the brick. I clenched my teeth. No noise. No scream.
Don't make a sound. Don't make a sound.
My breathing was too loud. I could hear it echoing in my head, uneven, panicked. I pressed my hands over my mouth to muffle it, but my heart was pounding so hard I felt like it might burst out of my chest.
I kept moving, slower this time. Not straight. Never straight. I turned left, then right, then left again, following paths I barely knew. Over these days, I had learned how to melt into the city like a shadow. How to disappear when necessary.
At the end of the alley, an overturned trash bin.
I slipped behind it.
I crouched down, my back against the cold metal, knees pulled to my chest. My body was shaking despite me. I closed my eyes for one second—just one—to regain control. To remind myself that I was still alive.
Footsteps.
Nearby.
I froze.
Voices too. Muffled, but clear. They were there. Maybe not the same men. Maybe others. I couldn't know. In that moment, every adult voice felt dangerous. Every shadow, a threat.
I held my breath so hard my chest hurt.
The footsteps came closer, then stopped.
"Did you hear something?"
"No… probably a cat."
A cat.
If only.
They walked away. Slowly. Then nothing.
I waited.
A long time.
Too long, maybe, but I didn't dare move. Fear does that to you—it pins you down even when the danger has already passed. When I finally lifted my head, my muscles were stiff. My legs protested as I stood up.
I couldn't stay there.
I had to get back to the others.
I started moving again, sticking close to the walls, avoiding wide streets. I felt like everyone could read the panic on my face, like every glance would linger too long. So I kept my eyes down. I walked fast—but not too fast. Just enough to look normal.
At every corner, I looked before crossing.
Calm down. Breathe. You're not there anymore.
But the image kept coming back: the warehouse. The money. The man's voice. And above all… the gun.
I had never seen a weapon that close before.
Just the memory made me nauseous.
When I finally saw the graffiti-covered wall where the others were waiting, all my strength drained away at once. My steps sped up without me meaning to. I burst into their view almost at a run.
"Yurim?"
Simon's voice.
I stopped short in front of them, bent over, hands on my knees. Air rushed in and out of my lungs in harsh bursts. I couldn't speak. My throat was dry, burning.
"Hey—what's going on?" Marc asked, stepping closer.
I felt their eyes on me. The worry. The surprise. William's eyes were wide. Teïkō watched me in silence, focused, as if trying to understand before I even spoke.
"Run a marathon or something?" Simon tried, with a nervous smile.
I didn't answer.
I couldn't.
My heart was still racing. My hands were shaking. I raised one hand, as if asking them to wait. Wait for me to catch my breath. Wait for the words to line up in my head.
"Yurim…" William murmured. "Did you see something?"
I shook my head.
Or rather… no. I nodded. I didn't even know anymore.
I straightened slowly. My vision blurred for a moment, then cleared. They were all there. Safe. For now.
I have to tell them.
But not just any way.
If I spoke too fast, I'd panic everyone. If I stayed silent, we'd keep going like nothing had happened. And that… that could kill us.
"We… we need to go back," I finally said.
"What? Why?" Marc asked.
I looked at them one by one.
Simon, trying to stay relaxed.
William, already pale.
Teïkō, serious, silent, his dark eyes locked onto mine.
I swallowed.
"I heard something," I said at last.
My voice was still unsteady. Too low. But enough.
"Something important."
They moved closer without realizing it.
I ran a hand over my face, finally letting the air fill my lungs.
"There are men… and they were talking about a place…"
I stopped.
The word stuck in my throat.
A warehouse.
And it was exactly at that moment—just as I drew breath to continue—that silence fell over us. A heavy, tense silence, as if the whole world were holding its breath with me.