The midday sun hammered down, wood planks radiating heat back into his sandals. TSUF's arms screamed, shoulders tight, rope burns stinging with every shift of weight. Sweat ran in rivers down his back, stinging eyes and clinging to every ache.
He felt the eyes again—not close, not harsh, just faint, distant, indifferent. Shadows flickered at the edges of his vision. TSUF didn't acknowledge them. He didn't need them. Rhythm mattered more than attention.
A foreman's voice cracked above the clamor. "Don't stop! Move faster!" TSUF grunted, bracing his feet, gripping the next crate. Each motion measured, each lift deliberate.
Coins jingled faintly in his pouch, grounding him. Bread, medicine, parents' full bellies. The math stayed simple. Nothing else mattered.
Nearby, a younger laborer stumbled over a coil of rope, sending a small pile tilting. TSUF glanced, shifted his own balance, and carried on. Not to help, not to lecture. Attention fractured and scattered; he honed in on what he could control: his own hands, his own body, the next crate.
Pain, heat, and exhaustion merged into motion. Every heartbeat echoed in his temples. Breath sharp, muscles trembling, he pushed further than before.
Crates landed, thudded, scraped, stacked. Every second a test. Every move a reminder: survival demanded focus, not haste, not flair, not recognition.
And when the final crate dropped into place, TSUF exhaled, shoulders shaking. One moment survived. One more ahead. And he would meet it.