The descent from the Upper Sectors took exactly fourteen minutes, but to Marzell, it felt like sinking into a grave.
He stood in the rusted cage of the steam-elevator, the polished brass and pristine white marble of the ceremony hall fading into a blur of iron beams and choking, yellow smog. Down here, the sun was a myth. The Lower Levels were illuminated only by the harsh, flickering glow of sodium lamps and the occasional burst of sparks from the massive, grinding gears that kept the city above afloat.
The air tasted like pennies and sulfur. As the elevator slammed into the ground floor with a metallic shriek, Marzell stepped out into the mud.
He kept his head down, pulling the collar of his frayed coat up to hide his face. But more importantly, he kept his left hand shoved deep into his pocket. The metal of the Blank card was still hot against his wrist, a branding iron of his failure.
As he navigated the narrow, sewage-flooded alleyways toward his block, a loud crash echoed ahead.
Two Sector Enforcers—bruisers clad in cheap, steam-powered exo-braces—were cornering a young beggar. One of the Enforcers laughed, kicking the boy's tin cup into the sludge. Normally, Marzell would have hugged the wall and walked faster. In the Lower Levels, playing the hero only got you killed.
He told his legs to keep moving. But his left arm wouldn't obey.
A sharp, electric pulse radiated from the card on his wrist. Marzell stopped. His left hand slipped out of his pocket on its own. It moved with an eerie, fluid grace that wasn't his, casually scooping up a heavy, rusted lug nut from the dirt.
What am I doing? Marzell panicked, trying to force his fingers open. They wouldn't budge.
With a flick of his wrist so fast it blurred, the lug nut shot through the air. It ricocheted off a metal pipe, struck the pressure valve on the Enforcer's steam-brace, and shattered it.
HISS.
Scalding steam erupted directly into the Enforcer's face. The man screamed, flailing wildly, and slipped backward into the sewage trench. His partner scrambled to help him, completely ignoring the beggar, who immediately bolted into the shadows.
Marzell stood frozen in the alley. He should have been terrified. If they had seen him, he would have been executed on the spot. But instead, a slow, wide, and entirely involuntary smirk stretched across his face.
That same breathy chuckle from the stage bubbled up in his throat. He slapped a hand over his mouth to muffle it and hurried home, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm.
By the time he reached his family's shack—a patchwork nightmare of corrugated tin and rotting wood—the smirk had vanished, replaced by the crushing weight of reality.
He pushed the creaking door open.
"Marzell!"
A small body slammed into his waist. It was his little sister, Elara. Her clothes were too big for her, stained with ash, but her eyes were painfully bright. "Did you get a number, Marzell? Did you get a Spades? Are we going to see the sky?"
From the dark corner of the room, a terrible, wet cough rattled through the thin walls. His mother lay on a stained mattress, her skin pale and translucent. The damp, toxic air of the slums was slowly drowning her lungs.
"Marzell..." she rasped, offering a weak, trembling smile. "Welcome back. Come... let me see."
Marzell knelt beside her bed. He couldn't look Elara in the eyes. Slowly, he pulled his left hand from his pocket and rolled up his sleeve.
The blank, silver metal gleamed dully in the dim light.
Elara's face fell. She stepped back, her small hands clutching her ragged dress. His mother just closed her eyes, a single tear escaping, before she reached out and stroked his cheek.
"It's okay," she whispered, her voice breaking. "You tried. My brave boy... you tried so hard."
"I got a job," Marzell choked out, the words tasting like ash. "Because it's on my left wrist, I qualify for the Special Category. I start tomorrow in the chemical runoff sewers. It's... it's double the pay of a normal scavenger. I can get your medicine, Mom. I can get it."
Before she could answer, the front door was kicked open with a violently loud CRACK.
The stench of cheap gin and stale sweat flooded the room before the man even stepped fully inside. His father, tall but slouched with intoxication, swayed in the doorway. His eyes immediately locked onto Marzell.
"Well?" the man slurred, slamming the door shut. "Where is it? Where's the payout? Show me the wrist, boy. Papa needs his cut."
Marzell didn't move. He kept his left arm exposed.
His father's bloodshot eyes drifted down to the left wrist. He stared at the Blank card for a long, agonizing moment. The drunken haze in his eyes sharpened into absolute, vicious fury.
"Twenty years," his father spat, his voice dropping into a dangerous growl. "Twenty years I fed you, and you bring me back a cripple's mark?!"
"Don't," Marzell warned, his voice low.
"I'll teach you respect, you worthless rat!" The older man lunged, raising a heavy, calloused fist aimed squarely at Elara, who was standing closest to him.
Time seemed to slow down. Marzell felt that cold, creeping sensation wrap around his spine again. The card burned against his flesh.
When his father's fist came down, it hit empty air.
Marzell hadn't just intercepted him. He had moved with an unnatural, theatrical backbend, slipping under his father's guard like a shadow. His left hand shot out, wrapping around his father's thick wrist with a grip like an iron vise.
His father gasped, trying to yank his arm back, but Marzell's fingers didn't even twitch.
Marzell tilted his head to the side. The angle was slightly too far, almost broken. His eyes, usually filled with weary defeat, were blown wide and completely manic.
"Hehehe..."
The chuckle slipped out, cold and mocking. Marzell leaned in close to his father's ear, his voice dropping into a raspy, whisper that didn't sound like him at all.
"Hit her again... and I'll pop your eyes out like cheap marbles. It'd be... such a funny trick."
His father froze. The sheer, predatory malice radiating from his son completely sobered him for a split second. He yanked his arm back—Marzell let him go this time—and stumbled backward against the door, his chest heaving with sudden terror.
Without another word, the older man scrambled out into the alley, slamming the door behind him.
Marzell stood there, his back to his mother and sister. The terrifying smile slowly faded from his face, leaving only a deep, sinking dread.
He looked down at his left hand. The fingers were still twitching.