Mira led him to what she called "her home," though Lucy doubted any traditional definition of housing would include a springless mattress, a torn tarp for a roof, and a bubbling pot over an improvised fire. The shelter was a sort of makeshift cave made of rusted metal scraps and ripped tarps, the floor covered in dry leaves, heaps of garbage, and the occasional flattened cardboard box that once was a container.
Still, it had something many others in the refuge lacked: order, warmth… and someone to share food with.
"Sit somewhere you won't get stabbed," Mira said, pointing to a corner that was reasonably clean—or at least, less filthy than the rest.
Lucy carefully felt the floor until he found a surface that wouldn't hurt him. He sat down gingerly, trying not to sink into the sagging mattress that felt like a minefield of rusty nails and loose threads.
"I won't promise I won't scream if I get stabbed by something tetanus-worthy," he muttered dryly, a note of nervousness in his voice.
"Screaming is unoriginal," Mira replied with a dry smile, as if sarcasm were the best armor against the world.
Soon, the air filled with the scent of something warm and humble. It wasn't exactly appetizing, but it at least seemed edible. Mira handed him a bowl filled to the brim.
Lucy sniffed the contents with suspicion. The smell was strange—a mix of wet cardboard and something that vaguely resembled old soup. It didn't quite deserve the word "meal."
"This is supposed to be food?" he asked, sniffing like he expected the bowl to leap up and attack him.
"Technically, yes," Mira answered with amusement. "It's got protein, carbs, and… well, texture. You'll get used to it."
Lucy frowned, hesitated, and finally took the spoon to try a bite. The first mouthful was rough—so rough he almost choked.
"Mmm… wow. This tastes like if mud and despair had a baby and boiled it," he said, swallowing with effort, fighting the urge to spit it out. "What is this?"
"Root soup, crack-fungus, and synthesized mutant rat protein," Mira said without the slightest shame, like she was describing gourmet cuisine.
Lucy choked immediately.
"Sorry, did you say 'mutant'? Is there a non-surname option?"
"Sure, but that one's more expensive," Mira replied with a shrug and a mocking grin.
A small, oddly comfortable silence settled between them, broken only by the crackling of the fire and the distant murmurs of the shelter, which never seemed to sleep completely. Lucy tilted his head curiously.
"Hey… how did you learn to do all this? You know, survive down here."
"I didn't learn," Mira said bluntly. "I just didn't die. Not the same thing."
"Deep. Depressed philosopher level," Lucy muttered.
Mira let out a low chuckle, and for a moment, the world felt a bit less hostile, as if laughter could be a shield against everything lurking outside the shelter.
But without warning, a young voice broke the calm:
"Is it time to eat?"
Lucy jumped slightly—the voice was clear and close. A figure around his age appeared, approaching silently with a light step and bright eyes that seemed to see even in the darkness.
"Who...?" he started to ask, but Mira beat him to it with a tired smile.
"My daughter. Her name's Lya."
"You have a daughter?" Lucy said, surprised. "And you bring her to live in the paradise of rust?"
"She was born here, genius," Mira replied dryly. "Not like I had many options."
Lya, animated and fearless, sat down beside him. Her presence seemed to slightly light up the space—a small spark of life in the middle of decay.
"Are you the new weird blind guy?" she asked with a mix of curiosity and cheek.
"I prefer the term 'mysterious and devastatingly handsome man,' but yes, that too," Lucy replied in a mocking tone.
Lya burst into a genuine laugh that echoed in the small shelter. Mira handed her a bowl.
"Eat, Lya. And don't bother Lucy."
"Why not? He's fun," she said with a mischievous glint in her eyes.
"Thanks, random stranger. Glad to be the official clown," Lucy muttered as he took another sip of the mutant soup, still trying to find a flavor that didn't feel like suffering.
After dinner, Mira pulled out a bottle from a dark corner.
"Is that alcohol?" Lucy asked, raising an eyebrow.
"No. Distilled water. But it's so poorly filtered it burns like it is," Mira replied, offering it to him.
"Perfect. I love when water comes with trauma," he said with irony.
He took a sip and coughed, cursing inwardly and outwardly. Lya clapped with a mix of mockery and admiration.
"Not everyone survives the first sip!" she exclaimed.
"What an honor," Lucy gasped. "I'll add it to my résumé."
Mira settled beside the fire, her eyes reflecting the dancing flames.
"Tell me, Lucy. You know mana regenerates over time here, and that we all have it, right?"
Lucy nodded slowly.
"Yeah, I know. But I can't feel mine. It's like I'm disconnected. Shut off."
"It happens," Mira said softly. "Mana isn't always easy to feel, much less control. For most, it takes attention. Focus. Deep breathing, introspection."
"Sounds like magic yoga class," Lucy joked.
Mira didn't bother correcting him. Instead, she handed him a hot stone from the fire.
"Hold it. Close your eyes—oh wait, never mind."
"Thanks for the consideration," Lucy replied, smiling slightly.
"Slow your breathing. Now, try to feel beyond the heat and the touch. Feel the world's pulse—not with your hands, but with something inside."
Lucy obeyed, though in his head he heard cheap meditation music. At first, he felt nothing, but then… a tingling. Like weak electricity crawling up his spine. Like someone had struck a bell inside his chest and the echo ran through his veins.
"Is that…?" he asked, stunned.
"Mana. That's your center. You're beginning to brush it."
Lucy blinked, unsure of what to say, confused by the new sensation.
"It's weird. Like my body's hungry, but not for food."
"Because it is," Mira said. "All magical beings, even just a little, feel that need. You were summoned, so you have a core. Only…"
"It's broken?"
"Not exactly. It's shut off. Sealed, maybe. There's something else in there—something trying to come out… or not wanting to be found."
Lucy fell silent. That phrase chilled him, like a shadow settling on his chest.
"Great. I'm a cursed Kinder egg."
Lya walked up and placed something in his hand. It was soft: a bun, hard and dry, but warm and made with care.
"For when you're not magically hungry."
Lucy smiled. Despite everything, the gesture warmed something inside his chest—a small refuge in the darkness.
The shelter felt a little less cold.
And for the first time in a long while, Lucy felt like maybe… just maybe… he could survive this rusty hell.