The alarm dies with a pathetic wheeze before I can even hit it. I stare at the cracked plastic for a moment, then slam my palm down anyway. The damn thing's been giving up on me for weeks now, just like everything else in this shithole apartment.
Six AM. Early enough to beat the worst of the morning chaos, late enough that the junkies have crawled back into whatever holes they came from. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, and the springs groan like they're in pain. Can't blame them—I feel the same way most mornings.
Taking light swift steps towards the bathroom, the mirror shows me exactly what I expect: hollow cheeks, dark circles, and a purple bruise blooming around my left eye like some sick flower. Three days old now, still tender when I touch it. Marcus threw a mean right hook when I was short on my delivery fee. Won't happen again—I've learned to keep a few extra bills tucked away for situations like that.
I splash cold water on my face, the pipes coughing before they give me anything. At least the water runs clear today. Small victories.
My Radiance☆ hoodie hangs on the door hook, faded but still soft. I bought it when I was twelve, back when I thought having expensive clothes meant something. Back when I thought I'd make it out of Cicada South Rim before I turned twenty. The irony isn't lost on me—wearing a hoodie called "Radiance" while living in the darkest corner of the city.
But it's warm, and warmth costs money I don't have.
I grab the package from my shelf—unmarked, about the size of a paperback book, heavier than it looks. Marcus didn't tell me what's inside, and I didn't ask. Rule number one in the Rim: mind your own business if you want to keep breathing.
The morning air hits like a slap when I step outside. Early October, and the city's already preparing for another brutal winter. Taking a small glance around, the apartment complex around me looks like it's slowly collapsing in on itself—cracked walls, boarded windows, graffiti tags marking territory for gangs that change names every few months. Its better to start heading on my way before I get caught up in a stray dispute with the "neighbors".
I keep my head down walking to the warehouse, muscle memory guiding my feet around the broken glass and potholes. A few early risers nod at me from their stoops. They know me—the delivery kid who shows up on time and doesn't cause trouble. That's about as close to a reputation as anyone gets around here. Enough to not be troubled by small pettiness but not big enough to matter in the grand scheme of things, which usually 9 out of 10 times includes a bullet to the brain.
Arriving to the corner of the road, the Squadron warehouse squats at the end of Meridian Street like a concrete tumor. It's the only building in six blocks that doesn't look like it's held together with duct tape and prayers. Fresh paint, working lights, even a functioning door that chimes when you walk in. Must be nice, having drug money to fix things.
Inside, the place hums with activity. Crates stacked floor to ceiling, men in expensive jackets counting money at folding tables, the sharp smell of whatever chemicals they use to cut their product. I've been running packages for them for eight months now, and I still don't know exactly what they're pushing. Could range from simple small-time drugs to the really major stuff people know better than to speak about on the street. Ain't my business though and I sure as hell don't want to know.
Marcus the underboss of this area sits behind a desk that probably cost more than I make in a year, his gold tooth catching the overhead light when he grins. "My favorite delivery boy. You got something for me?"
I set the package on his desk, careful not to look at the contents of the open briefcase beside it. "Corner of Fifth and Ashland, like you said. All here and accounted for sir."
"Good." He slides an envelope across the desk. "There's a bonus in there. You've been reliable. Thats good. Real good. Try not to make a mess of your self, wouldnt want another eye as payment eh boy?" a malicious grin spreading across his face.
Reliable. That's me. The reliable kid who takes whatever scraps they throw him and says thank you. I pocket the envelope, already calculating how much I can put toward rent and how much I'll need for food. The basics but more important than lives 'round here, I hate this. All of it. The dreary disgusting threats around every corner, bossed around and smacked more times than you could drink water anytime you breathe wrong. I detest this disgusting hellscape.
"Same time tomorrow?" I ask.
Marcus nods, already turning his attention to something else. I'm dismissed.
Walking back through the Rim, I let myself imagine for just a moment what it would be like to have real choices. To wake up somewhere that doesn't smell like decay and desperation. To not have to calculate whether I can afford to replace a damn broken alarm clock.
I grit my teeth- clenching my fist so tight, it's as if blood could come dripping down at any moment.
Freedom. That's all I want. Just the freedom to choose my own path instead of having it chosen for me by geography and circumstance and the weight of a world that doesn't give a damn about kids like me.
The thought burns in my chest, hot and fierce and useless. Wanting things doesn't make them happen. I learned that lesson a long time ago.
Above me, the sky is clear and empty, the same dull gray it's been for weeks. Nothing ever changes in Cicago's South Rim. Nothing ever will.
But unfortunately, I had no idea how wrong I could be that day.