In the depths of the city, where the sun rarely touched and only flickering flames or salvaged bulbs offered light, there existed a place known as Underground Slum District Nine — a place forgotten by the upper cities and left to rot beneath layers of luxury and glass towers.
Here, people like Shaira lived.
A thin, sharp-eyed girl in patched clothes, she weaved through the narrow alleys of the slum with practiced ease. Her steps were light, careful not to disturb the unstable metal plates and cracked stone beneath her boots. The stench of old oil, smoke, and decay hung heavy in the air — but Shaira hardly noticed anymore.
It was just another day.
Slung over her shoulder was an empty sack. Her destination: the Cheap Food Shop — the only "restaurant" in District Nine.
---
The shop wasn't much to look at. A broken neon sign blinked the words "Eat All You Can — Pay First — No Refunds," its letters barely lit. Inside, old wooden tables were mismatched, and the walls were lined with faded posters. Behind a makeshift counter stood Uncle Ben — former con artist, current food merchant, and one of the few adults Shaira could trust.
Uncle Ben was a wiry old man with sharp eyes and an even sharper tongue. He ran the Cheap Food Shop with one philosophy: "If you're hungry enough, taste won't matter."
That morning, the place was already filling with slum residents. The smell of soup—though slightly sour—wafted through the air.
Shaira tied her hair back and got to work.
She arranged the food scraps salvaged from upper-ground dumpsters: bruised vegetables, overcooked meat, half-eaten loaves. She laid them out buffet-style, making sure everything looked... edible. Presentation mattered — even here.
"It is what it is," she thought, smoothing her worn apron. Though Shaira never complained, there was always that feeling inside her — like something was missing.
---
A loud thump echoed from the counter.
"No refund!" Uncle Ben barked as a man shoved his plate forward, disgusted.
"There's a cockroach egg in this stew!"
Without blinking, Uncle Ben pointed at the wall. A large, hand-painted sign read:
NO REFUND. PAY FIRST. YOUR SCRAP HELPS US GROW. THIS SHOP IS NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR BAD TASTE.
"You knew the risks," Uncle Ben said with a crooked smile. The man grumbled but sat back down — hunger winning over pride.
Shaira couldn't help a small chuckle.
---
Later, while cleaning the back of the shop, she spotted an old newspaper stuffed in a trash bin. The bold headline caught her eye:
"Historic Terra Library to be Demolished — Future Site of Tom Cash's Grand Casino"
Tom Cash. The richest man in the city. His name was everywhere these days.
"A library… turned into a casino," Shaira thought bitterly.
She glanced at the clock — 1:00 PM. The demolition wouldn't start until tomorrow. If she hurried, she might find something salvageable. Old books could sell for good coin — or at least make for decent kindling.
Decision made, she wiped her hands and grabbed her black collection bag.
---
District Nine wasn't just poor — it was banished. The entire slum was built beneath the city's surface. The people here were considered "Undesirables," cut off from rights, aid, or recognition by the Upper Council.
The only light sources were fire, gas lamps, and any scraps of tech salvaged from above. Even the air was heavy, damp with forgotten things.
But Shaira… she was different.
Though born in the slum, her parentage was... debated. Her mother was a slum healer; her father, a soldier from the upper city. A strange union — and one that gave her access to both worlds.
Some slumfolk called her Half-Blooded. Others whispered about her family behind her back. But Shaira didn't care.
"I have work to do," she thought.
---
At the guarded access tunnel, a familiar face greeted her.
"Off to collect more trash, Shaira?" Vulswaldo asked, leaning on his rifle. He was one of the guards stationed here — and had served with her late father in the war.
"Yes, as always," Shaira replied politely.
"You know… if you ever want a job up here, I could help. Edmond's daughter shouldn't be stuck below forever."
Shaira smiled faintly. "I'm fine like this. The slum… it's still my home."
She didn't say more. After her mother's death from contaminated food, she couldn't bear to leave. The slum was her last connection to her — a bond she wouldn't break.
Vulswaldo sighed but didn't press.
"Stay safe."
---
Above ground, the sunlight felt harsh on her skin. The towering glass structures and polished streets of the upper city were dazzling — and alien.
Shaira wasted no time. She moved swiftly through back alleys, avoiding patrols. In her black bag, she collected:
Stacks of discarded newspapers
Glass bottles
Bent scrap metal
Half-eaten meals from restaurant bins
Everything had value — in the slum, nothing was wasted.
Finally, she reached the Terra Library.
---
The grand stone building loomed before her, its ornate carvings weathered by time. Heavy wooden doors creaked open at her push. Inside, it smelled of old paper, dust, and forgotten memories.
She set her bag by the entrance and moved deeper inside.
Near the central hall, an old woman in faded robes was weeping quietly. Beside her, several children clung to her skirts, tears in their eyes.
Shaira slowed her steps.
The woman — Venia, the last caretaker of the library — looked up. Her voice was soft and tired:
"All these books… they'll be thrown away… lost…"
Shaira glanced at the towering shelves. Thousands of volumes. History, stories, knowledge — all destined for the landfill.
She didn't say much. Her goal was simple: salvage what she could.
"If you wish… I can help move some of them," Shaira offered.
Venia blinked in surprise. "Truly? But… aren't you alone?"
"I'll do it bit by bit. Most slumfolk can't come up here, but I can."
A faint smile touched Venia's lips.
"Then please… if you can, start with the far shelves. I want the front shelves to remain visible — for as long as possible."
"I understand."
---
And so, Shaira began her work.
Row by row, she sorted through the forgotten tomes. Dust coated her fingers, but she moved carefully, treating each book as if it still mattered.
Some were too damaged to save. Others were strange volumes — written in languages she couldn't read.
Among them, one book caught her eye.
It was old — older than any she'd seen. Bound in cracked leather, its cover bore a symbol she didn't recognize. The pages were brittle, filled with strange glyphs and markings.
Curious, Shaira traced the symbol with her finger.
"What are you…?"
She hesitated — then slipped it into her personal bag. Something about this book… called to her.