The sound of water dripping from the rusty pipes above his head created a monotonous rhythm that had accompanied Anthrax since he woke up this morning. Or maybe afternoon? In the depths of Layer 9 City, time was a concept that was almost meaningless. Artificial light from neon lights that flickered and occasionally went out completely was the only marker of the change from day to night.
Anthrax shifted his skinny body from the pile of wet cardboard that served as his bed. Fifteen years old, but his body looked like a twelve-year-old due to chronic malnutrition. His skin was pale grayish, almost transparent, with blue veins clearly visible beneath the surface. His tangled, greasy black hair covered part of his skinny face.
"The trash kid finally woke up."
The mocking voice came from the direction of the narrow alley on the right. Anthrax didn't need to turn around to know who was speaking. Kazor, one of the Red Knife gang's henchmen who controlled this sector. He might only be three years older than Anthrax, but in Layer 9 City, three years could mean the difference between life and death.
Anthrax slowly stood up, his body moving carefully to avoid any sudden movements that could be perceived as a threat. In this underground city, any wrong move could end with a knife in the gut or a cracked skull.
"Can I help you, Kazor?" Anthrax asked hoarsely. His throat was dry, he hadn't had a drink since yesterday.
Kazor stepped out of the shadows, followed by two of his men who always followed him like stray dogs. Kazor's face was covered in scars, the reward of many fights in dark alleys. His small, sharp eyes stared at Anthrax with hatred.
"You know what I need, scum," Kazor said, brandishing a small knife that he always carried. "This week's tribute. You think we're going to protect your royal cardboard bed for free?"
Anthrax swallowed hard. Tribute. It was always about tribute. Every kid who wasn't in a gang had to pay tribute to the gang that controlled their territory. The problem was, Anthrax wasn't in any gang, and he almost never had anything to pay.
"I... I haven't gotten anything today, Kazor. Maybe tomorrow—"
Kazor moved quickly. Before Anthrax could react, Kazor's fist had already slammed into his stomach hard. Anthrax was pushed back and hit the wet, mossy brick wall.
"Tomorrow?" Kazor laughed, his laughter echoing in the narrow hallway. "You've been saying tomorrow for a week. Do you think our patience is limitless?"
Anthrax curled up on the floor, cradling his throbbing stomach. He was used to pain, but every blow still felt like the first time. In Layer 9 City, pain was a loyal friend that never left anyone.
"Please," Anthrax whispered. "Give me another day. I'll find a way to—"
This time Kazor kicked him in the ribs. Anthrax felt something crack in his chest, and his breath hitched. Fresh blood flowed from the corner of his mouth, dripping onto the dirty concrete floor.
"One more day?" Kazor crouched beside Anthrax, his voice dropping to a whisper that was more terrifying than his screams. "Do you know what happens to people who can't pay their debts here?"
Anthrax knew. Everyone on Layer 9 knew. They disappeared. Sometimes their bodies were found in the sewers with horrific injuries. Sometimes they weren't found at all.
"I'll pay," Anthrax said in a barely audible voice. "I promise I will."
Kazor stood up and spat in Anthrax's face. "Promised not to fill our bellies, you piece of shit. But since we're kind…" he turned to his two men, "we'll teach him a lesson he'll never forget."
What followed was pure violence.
The three gang members took turns attacking Anthrax. Blow after blow rained down on his already weakened body. Kazor used his knife to make small cuts on Anthrax's arms and face, not to kill, but to add to the suffering.
Anthrax tried to protect his head with his hands, but his efforts were in vain. Every time he tried to get up, one of them would kick him back to the floor. Blood began to pool around his body, mixing with the dirty water that always flowed in the alleys of Layer 9.
"This is just the beginning," Kazor said as he wiped the blood from his knife. "If you don't pay your debt in three days, we will be back. And by then, we won't be this kind."
They laughed as they walked away, leaving Anthrax lying like a living corpse amidst the trash and filth.
Who knows how long Anthrax lay there. His body felt like it had been run over by a heavy vehicle. Every breath he took felt like a knife was stabbing his chest. His swollen eyes could barely see anything.
Slowly, with great effort, he tried to stand up. His hands shook violently as he tried to prop himself up. Blood still flowed from the wounds on his body, leaving red trails on the dirty concrete floor.
He had to move. On Layer 9, showing weakness for too long was an invitation for other predators to come. The wolves of the streets were always on the lookout for wounded prey.
With faltering steps, Anthrax moved away from his usual sleeping spot. He knew he couldn't go back there for a while. Kazor and his gang would surely be watching the place.
The city of Layer 9 stretched out before him like a labyrinth from a nightmare. The weathered brick walls, rusty pipes hanging precariously overhead, and flickering lights created an eerie atmosphere. Strange sounds echoed from the depths of the tunnels that had no end in sight.
Anthrax walked past the rows of tattered tents and scrap metal shacks that housed the inhabitants of Layer 9. Eyes peered through the gaps, watching him with looks that could mean anything—pity, curiosity, or even malice. In the distance, he could hear shouting and arguing. Maybe another fight was going on, or maybe someone had just been robbed. On Layer 9, both of these things were a daily occurrence.
Anthrax kept walking, though he had no idea where he was going. All he knew was that he had to get away from the Red Knife gang's territory. His wounded feet dragged on the slippery floor, leaving a thin trail of blood.
The deeper he walked, the quieter the surroundings became. The lights became less frequent, and the sounds of life slowly faded away. He entered an area that even by Layer 9 standards was considered dangerous—the abandoned sector.
Here, there was only darkness and the sound of dripping water echoing in the vast, empty room. The walls were covered in faded graffiti, a relic of the days when this area was still inhabited. Now all that remained were the ghosts of the past.
Anthrax stopped in front of a large, rusty iron door. Above it hung an illegible warning sign. He had no idea what was behind the door, but he was too tired to care.
He sat leaning against the iron door, feeling the cold metal penetrate his torn clothes. His swollen eyes stared at the darkness before him. For the first time since the beating, he felt relatively safe.
But the safety of Layer 9 was a dangerous illusion.
The sound of slowly approaching footsteps jolted Anthrax out of his trance. The footsteps sounded heavy and sure, not the footsteps of someone just passing by.
"Look what we found here."
A new voice. Not Kazor or his men. This was worse.
Three figures stepped out of the darkness, and Anthrax recognized them immediately. The Black Skulls—the Red Knives' most bitter rivals on Layer 9. Their leader, a man in his early twenties with a face covered in skull tattoos, smiled a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"Poor Red Knives kid," the leader said, his voice deep and menacing. "Lost in our territory."
Anthrax tried to stand, but his body refused to cooperate. "I... I'm not a Red Knives member," he said with difficulty.
"Oh really?" The Black Skulls leader crouched down in front of him. "But they were the ones who beat you, right? That means you're their property. And anything that belongs to the Red Knives is our enemy."
Anthrax felt a deep sense of despair wash over him. He had escaped from the crocodile's mouth only to enter the tiger's. In Layer 9, no place was truly safe, especially for someone like him.
Before he could say anything, one of the Black Skulls kicked him hard in the chest. Anthrax was sent flying backwards, his head hitting the metal door with a loud thud.
"Take him," the leader ordered. "We'll use him to send a message to the Red Blades."
The two gang members dragged Anthrax off the floor. His battered body was unable to resist. They dragged him through dark corridors, deeper into territory that even the denizens of Layer 9 considered taboo.
Finally they stopped in front of a large hole in the floor. The hole was so dark that not even the light of a flashlight could penetrate its bottom. The air coming out of it was cold and carried a strange smell—a mix of metal, wet earth, and something else he couldn't identify.
"Layer 10," one of the gang members whispered in a terrified voice. "Are you sure we should throw him in there?"
Their leader laughed harshly. "It's the only way to make sure he doesn't come back to tell us what happened today."
Anthrax felt a terror he had never felt before. Layer 10. Even in this already terrifying Layer 9, Layer 10 was a terrifying legend. It was said that anyone who went down there would never return.
"Wait," Anthrax said in a desperate voice. "Please, don't—"
His words were cut off as they pushed him to the edge of the hole. Anthrax felt his feet dangling in the air, gravity pulling him down.
And then he fell.
The darkness swallowed him whole.