The soreness settled in overnight.
Jason felt it before he fully woke an awareness of his body that went beyond simple discomfort. His arms were heavy, his legs slow to respond, and there was a dull ache beneath his ribs that reminded him of the man bleeding on the street, of pressure applied and held too long.
He lay still, breathing carefully.
This was different from injury. Injury was sharp, localized. This was accumulation.
When he finally sat up, the room tilted slightly, then steadied. Jason waited until it did before standing. He had learned that rushing recovery only turned manageable strain into something worse.
The inn was quieter than usual when he went downstairs. The early crowd had already passed, and the late risers hadn't arrived yet. Mira glanced at him from behind the counter, eyes narrowing just a fraction.
"You look like you argued with a wall and lost," she said.
Jason shrugged. "Wall didn't complain."
She snorted and slid him a mug. "Drink. You're slower today."
He accepted it without comment. The liquid was bitter and warm, something brewed from roots Jason never bothered to ask about. It helped anyway.
As he drank, his gaze drifted to the door.
Two men entered, both wearing patched cloaks marked faintly with the symbol of a local guild not one of the larger ones, but established enough that people noticed. They spoke in low voices, tension threaded through their words.
"…third time this week," one muttered.
"Ruins?" the other asked.
"Edge of one. Not even inside yet."
Jason didn't look directly at them, but he listened.
Guilds weren't new to him. They'd always existed in the city, filling the gap between individual desperation and organized survival. Some were careful. Some were reckless. Most were somewhere in between.
The men took a table near the wall. Their conversation stayed low, but fragments reached Jason anyway.
"…lost two before they pulled out."
"…not worth it unless"
"…orders from above."
Jason finished his drink and stood. He didn't need the rest.
Outside, the city was already warmer, sunlight pushing down into the narrower streets where shadows usually lingered. He moved through the crowd with practiced ease, letting the flow carry him toward the outer ring.
He hadn't planned on going there.
But the Wasteland had a way of pulling people where they were least prepared to be.
The outer ring was different from the rest of the city. Less stone, more wood. Fewer guards, more eyes. People here watched one another not out of suspicion, but necessity. If something went wrong, help would come late, if at all.
Jason slowed as he approached a narrow side street he didn't usually take.
The pressure returned.
This time, it was unmistakable.
He stopped.
The street ahead looked empty. Too empty. No vendors, no children, no dogs rooting through scraps. Just a stretch of uneven stone leading toward the outer wall.
Jason exhaled slowly and stepped forward anyway.
Halfway down, he heard it a sharp intake of breath, followed by a muffled cry.
Jason broke into a jog.
The source was a collapsed section of wall near the back of a storage yard. A boy lay on the ground, maybe thirteen or fourteen, one leg twisted at an angle it shouldn't be. Blood seeped through torn fabric, dark and slow.
No one else was around.
Jason knelt beside him immediately.
"Don't move," he said, voice steady.
The boy's eyes were wide, unfocused. "I....I slipped," he said, words tumbling over one another. "I was just...."
"Doesn't matter," Jason said. "Breathe."
He assessed quickly. Broken leg, likely compound fracture. Pain severe, but not immediately fatal. The problem wasn't the injury it was the location. Leaving him here was not an option.
Jason glanced around, calculating.
Carrying the boy would slow him. But waiting would kill him.
He slid an arm under the boy's shoulders and lifted carefully, adjusting when the boy cried out. The weight was awkward but manageable.
As he straightened, the system nudged his awareness.
Jason didn't check the numbers.
He didn't need to.
Each step sent a jolt through his legs, strain building with steady insistence. He focused on his breathing, on keeping his pace even. Too fast and he'd fall. Too slow and they'd be found by something worse than delay.
By the time he reached the main street, sweat soaked his shirt and his arms trembled with effort.
Someone shouted when they saw him. Another person ran ahead to call for help.
Jason lowered the boy carefully as guards arrived, relief flickering across the boy's face before pain dragged it away again.
"Found him like this?" a guard asked.
"He fell," Jason said. "Needs a healer."
The guard nodded and waved others forward.
Jason stepped back, leaning against a wall as the adrenaline drained out of him. His hands shook now, uncontrollably. His vision narrowed at the edges.
He closed his eyes.
Not now, he thought. Just hold.
The sensation passed slowly, reluctantly.
When he opened his eyes again, the street had resumed its rhythm. The boy was gone, carried away on a makeshift stretcher. People talked in low voices, already filing the incident away as something that had happened to someone else.
Jason pushed off the wall and walked away.
He didn't feel satisfaction. He didn't feel pride.
He felt tired.
Back at the inn, Mira took one look at him and sighed. "Sit."
Jason obeyed.
She pressed a cloth into his hands and poured water without asking. "You keep doing this," she said, not unkindly.
"Doing what?"
"Coming back like you're the only one who noticed something was wrong."
Jason didn't answer.
He drank the water slowly, letting it settle. When the shaking in his hands eased, he stood and headed upstairs without another word.
In his room, he lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling again.
This time, he didn't fight the system.
He checked.
Condition: Strained
Vitality: 12
Strength: 9
Agility: 10
Perception: 11
Recovery: In Progress
No change.
Jason let out a quiet breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.
"So that's it," he murmured. "I keep moving. You keep watching."
The numbers didn't respond.
Outside, the city buzzed with life, unaware of the small threads tightening beneath its surface. Guilds prepared. Ruins waited. People slipped, fell, survived or didn't.
Jason closed his eyes, exhaustion finally claiming him.
He didn't know it yet, but patterns were forming. Not heroic ones. Not dramatic ones.
Just the kind that decided, slowly and without asking, how long someone stayed alive in the Wasteland.