The alarm blared at 4:30 AM, a tinny sound that echoed off the bare walls of Mateo's room. He silenced it with a practiced motion, his body rising before his mind fully awakened. Through the grimy window, the sky was still dark, stars fading as the first hints of dawn approached.
No time to waste. He needed to get cleaned up, get to the arcade, earn his money, and buy that admission ticket. Simple. Linear. Achievable.
Keep telling yourself that, a voice whispered in the back of his mind. He crushed it down like he did everything else that threatened to derail him.
His stomach cramped—a familiar companion since he'd started skipping meals to save money. Hunger was just another enemy to ignore, like the doubt.
Down the hall, the communal bathroom reeked of mildew and broken dreams. The mirror above the sink was cracked, splitting his reflection into jagged pieces—a tall, lean young man with perpetually dark circles under his eyes and a set to his jaw that made him look older than eighteen. Or maybe just more tired.
He turned the faucet handle. A few pathetic drops of cold water leaked out, then nothing.
"Fucking typical," he muttered, the words feeling sharp and satisfying in the empty room. Twenty percent chance of water on a good day—those were lottery odds in The Cemetery. All the resources got funneled to the city centers where rich people lived behind their walls, safe from stray bullets and the smell of burning flesh.
Behind him, footsteps approached. "Get a move on, kid."
Two residents waited—an older woman with gray hair tied in a messy bun and a man with a prosthetic leg that clicked against the tile floor. Morning routines here were coordinated with military precision; everyone knew which five-minute window belonged to them.
"Heard explosions last night," the woman muttered as Mateo stepped aside. Her wrinkles deepened with worry. "Getting closer."
The man with the prosthetic nodded. "Government's lying about how bad it is. My cousin near the border says they're losing ground every day."
Mateo nodded but kept moving. Rumors and fears were constant companions in these halls—background noise, like the hum of surveillance drones or the distant sound of gunfire. He'd learned to filter it out. Had to, or he'd go crazy thinking about things he couldn't control.
All that mattered was leaving this place. Becoming strong enough to matter. Strong enough to make the kind of difference Alec never got the chance to make.
Back in his room, he counted his money again. Two hundred and eighty-five dollars. If luck was on his side—if his coworkers called in sick, if he could pick up extra shifts, if the universe decided to throw him a bone for once—today might be the day he reached his goal.
He packed his gym clothes, a bottle of water, and an apple he'd been saving. As he zipped the backpack, his fingers brushed against the cloth-wrapped object at the bottom. Alec's horn. Still there. Still waiting.
What would you think of me now? he wondered, then immediately hated himself for the thought. Alec would understand. He had to.
The streets were quiet at this hour, the darkness broken only by the occasional sweep of surveillance drones overhead. Their red scanning beams cut through the pre-dawn gloom like mechanical eyes, searching for curfew violators or worse. Mateo kept to the shadows out of habit. The drones rarely bothered with ordinary citizens, but in The Cemetery, attracting any kind of official attention was like painting a target on your back.
Five blocks to the arcade. Extra hours meant extra money. Maybe his colleagues would find some excuse not to show up—hangover, family emergency, general apathy about their minimum-wage existence. Their loss would be his gain.
That's when something stepped into his path.
"Well, well, well. If it isn't the little hero."
The voice hit him like ice water. Brett—broad-shouldered, arrogant, with the kind of casual cruelty that came from never facing real consequences. During the day, he drove delivery trucks and acted like a normal person. At night, Mateo had seen him with a black mask and a knife, climbing into his truck with other masked figures. Everyone knew what that meant. Nobody talked about it.
"Don't bother denying it, Footmat. Your old man Arx got drunk with my boss last night and wouldn't shut up about your stupid dream of becoming a hero."
Brett's laughter was harsh, ugly. From the shadows of the alley, two more figures emerged. Razor—skinny with a spiky haircut and burn scars covering half his face like melted wax. Bones—completely bald with skull tattoos covering every visible inch of skin, grinning like everything in life was the funniest joke he'd ever heard.
"Move," Mateo said quietly. His voice was steady, but his hands were already curling into fists. "I'm trying to get to work."
Brett's expression shifted, amusement curdling into something nastier. "Trying to ignore me? You're not going anywhere, Hero."
Mateo forced his shoulders to relax, tried to inject some self-deprecating humor into his voice. "Didn't you hear? It was a joke. Me—someone without a quirk—trying to be a hero? Ridiculous, right?"
The words tasted like ash in his mouth, but survival trumped pride.
Bones shuffled forward, still grinning that unsettling grin. "Look at him, bro. Ain't he the kid that works at that dead arcade nobody goes to? He's broke as shit and powerless. You really gonna beat up some defenseless nobody for kicks?"
For a moment, both Brett and Razor paused, as if actually considering the question. Then they burst into laughter—wet, spittle-flecked guffaws that made Mateo's skin crawl.
"Beating up defenseless kids is my favorite hobby!" Brett clutched his sides. "Right after smoking Cana and screwing those girls at the motel."
Razor cackled like it was the height of wit. "Nah, man, you got it backwards. The motel girls come first. Everything else is just dessert."
Brett cracked his knuckles with deliberate slowness. "Besides, I've seen this guy at the gym. He's got some serious technique on the heavy bag. So what do you say, Hero?" His eyes locked with Mateo's, and the air between them seemed to crackle with tension. "Come and fight this villain."
Mateo's mind raced. Brett was bigger, stronger, and probably had some kind of quirk—you didn't pick fights with strangers unless you were confident you'd win. But running wasn't an option, not with three of them blocking the alley. And something deeper, darker, was stirring in his chest. A familiar hunger that had nothing to do with missed meals.
This is what heroes do, whispered a voice that sounded like his own. They fight the bad guys.
Mateo took a deep breath, feeling his muscles coil with familiar tension. The same feeling he got when he was pounding the heavy bag, imagining faces. Alec's killers. The politicians who'd sent them to war. The world that had taken everything from him and given nothing back.
"Alright," he said, settling into a fighting stance. His voice was calm, almost detached. "Let's go."
Brett's smirk widened as he raised his fists. Behind him, Razor and Bones formed a loose semicircle, cutting off any escape routes. In the distance, a drone's searchlight swept across the mouth of the alley, then moved on.
For a moment, everything was still. Just three predators and their prey, frozen in a tableau that could have been lifted from any number of dark alleys in The Cemetery. The only sound was Mateo's steady breathing and the faint hum of the city waking up around them.
Then Brett stepped forward, and the stillness shattered.