饾檨饾櫔饾櫓饾櫈饾櫋饾櫄 饾櫃饾櫄饾櫕饾櫈饾櫂饾櫄饾櫒 - 饾檸饾櫔饾櫅饾櫉饾櫀饾櫍 饾檸饾櫓饾櫄饾櫕饾櫄饾櫍饾櫒. My apartment is never completely quiet. Even at night, the city hums through the walls, and the radiator clicks like it鈥檚 keeping time. I live on the fourth floor, just high enough to feel removed, not high enough to escape anything. Across the street, there鈥檚 a window that鈥檚 always lit. At first, it was just part of the scenery鈥攁nother rectangle of light in a city full of them.
She is a courier in the underground, moving through the city鈥檚 slums with a speed and precision that few can match. Born among rubble and ruin, she knows every alley, rooftop, and hidden passage, navigating spaces that even trained soldiers hesitate to enter. Her strength and agility allow her to survive where others would fall, though she never carries weapons or joins the military. Her work brings her into contact with soldiers and officials, exposing her to the harsh discipline, suspicion.
The bar smells of old wood, cigarette smoke trapped in the walls, and cheap whiskey. The lights are low, always low, like the place is afraid of being seen in daylight. Every night, I step onto the small stage with the same microphone, the same worn piano behind me, and the same faces looking back. They call me their little star. There鈥檚 Mr. Collins at the counter, who always taps his glass in rhythm before I even start. The couple in the corner booth who never talks, just listens.