He woke up because of the cold.
Not the kind that cuts your skin, but a damp, creeping chill that slipped through his clothes and settled into his spine like an old habit that had been there for far too long. The ceiling above him was stained with patches of gray and black, watermarks that had once run and dried, leaving behind shapes like meaningless maps.
His head hurt.
A dull ache. Not sharp, not violent, just steady and persistent, like someone tapping slowly from inside his skull. He blinked a few times, staring at the familiar empty space in front of him, taking a few seconds to remember where he was.
The wall-builders' dorm.
The room was so small that if he stretched his legs straight out, he could almost touch the opposite wall. A metal bed was pushed into the corner, its thin mattress long past the point of spring. A low wooden table. A chair with one uneven leg. An old window with a rusted iron frame.
He lay still for a moment, breathing slowly, waiting for the dizziness to pass.
His hair fell over his face. Dark circles framed his eyes. His body was thin. Not the fragile kind of thin from sickness, but the kind that came from growing up with too little and working too much. Bones stood out clearly under dry skin. No extra muscle, no wasted flesh. The oversized sleep shirt hung loosely over his fifteen-year-old frame. His shoulders sloped slightly, his back never fully straight, as if he had long grown used to making himself smaller.
He sat up. The bed let out a short creak, almost like a quiet complaint.
The taste of cheap alcohol still lingered in his mouth.
He frowned.
Last night had been his first time drinking. Not because he liked it. Not because someone pressured him. He just… wanted to mark something. A small milestone in a life that didn't offer many worth remembering.
His first month's pay as an official citizen.
A full-time job.
A room of his own, even if it was old.
He walked to the window and pulled aside the thin curtain, now stained a dull yellow-gray.
Below, rows of low houses crowded together, patched from cracked concrete, old metal sheets, and recycled scraps. Power lines tangled like spider webs overhead. The few people walking kept their heads down. This was a very normal part of the continent—not the worst, but not much better either.
Farther away, the Wall came into view.
A massive stretch of stone and metal that ran all the way to the horizon. Its surface was covered in repairs, cracks, layers of reinforcement stacked over one another through generations. People said it had been fixed so many times that no one remembered what the original design looked like.
He worked there.
His job was simple: carrying loads, mixing materials, reinforcing, checking lower sections of the structure—the kind of tasks ordinary people could still handle, as long as they could endure exhaustion and cold.
He changed his clothes. The worker's uniform hanging on the iron hook was worn thin at the wrists and knees. When he put it on, it felt slightly too big, like it had once belonged to someone larger. He didn't think much about that.
Before leaving, he glanced at the wooden table.
A few old items were neatly placed there. Nothing with clear value. A broken lighter. A small piece of metal with a faint engraving. He liked things like that. Not for their use, but for the feeling that they had existed before he was born—a sense of something old.
He locked the door.
The hallway was long, dimly lit, with peeling walls. The smell of sweat, metal, and dampness mixed in the air. Footsteps echoed steadily. A new day began—quietly, just like every other day.
The work site was already busy.
The sun hadn't fully risen yet, but the industrial lights had been on for a while, casting a cold white glow across the Wall's surface. Old machines growled. Metal clanged against metal. Hoarse voices called out to one another. Together, they formed a constant background noise that the workers here had grown so used to they barely noticed it anymore.
He picked up his shift tag and stood in line.
Around him, besides the regular workers, were a few low-tier Awakened.
They were easy to spot. Not because they showed off, but because of the way they stood a little straighter, their eyes sharper, their movements cleaner and more controlled than ordinary people. They looked healthier too. Most wore the same type of protective gear as him, but theirs was newer, less patched.
Old Hoob sat on a metal crate near the assignment area. Same as always—an old coat, cap pulled low, tall frame, hair completely white, yet his face didn't look that old. It gave off a strange feeling. His gaze swept over the crowd, paused on the boy for a brief second, then moved on.
"Celebrating last night?" he asked, voice rough.
He nodded slightly.
"First time?"
"…Yes."
Hoob let out a short grunt, neither smiling nor scolding. "Do your job properly. Don't let it affect your work."
He nodded again and went to collect his tools.
Breakfast was served in a temporary cafeteria. A wide space with a high ceiling, rows of metal tables and chairs. Each person received a tray: synthetic protein bread, thin soup, and a nutrition supplement tablet. The taste was bland, but it provided enough energy.
He ate in silence.
On the wall, an old screen played the morning news. The host talked about reinforcing another section of the Wall in a different territory, about safety numbers, about stability. A few slogans about sustainable development between the government and the great families.
No one really paid attention.
An Awakened sitting across from him crushed his protein bread slowly in one hand, as if testing his strength. Another silently drank his soup, eyes empty.
After breakfast, everyone dispersed.
He was assigned to the northern reinforcement sector. The work wasn't extremely heavy, but it dragged on. He kept a steady rhythm. Sweat soaked into his clothes. Cold wind slipped through cracks in the Wall, raising goosebumps along his skin.
This world ran on repetition: work, eat, sleep. The ones who survived learned not to think too far ahead—and he was no different.
Mid-shift, he looked up at the Wall.
Layers upon layers of material stacked together, marks left by countless hands over countless years. It didn't look perfect. But it was still standing.
He lowered his head and kept working.
Somewhere far away, the world might have been changing. But here, within the slow rhythm of the Wall, everything remained the same.
At least, for now.