035

I don't remember how long I stared at that picture before deciding it was real enough to want.

It was printed on thin newspaper, already yellowing, crumpled in the corner of a servant's coat pocket, left behind in haste or carelessness.

I only saw it because I had bent down to retrieve a dropped teacup. It shattered anyway. Not the point.

The picture, that was the point.

It showed a skyline. Not just buildings, but towers. Glass and iron and concrete - strange things layered on top of each other like thoughts too complicated to explain.

Lights glimmered like dying stars trapped in metal. I remember thinking they looked... alive.

I tore the paper when I took it. Folded it into a square. Hid it under my pillow.

It became a game.

Staring at it before I closed my eyes. Imagining what it would sound like. Smell like. If the people who lived there ever bled on marble staircases. If they still died quietly.

The thought of them dying didn't bother me. The idea of them living, now that- that was interesting.

And then, one day, I wished to be there.

Not passively. Not like a child in a cage dreaming of faraway lands. I wanted it. Actively. Completely. I thought of the image, closed my eyes, pressed the thin paper to my chest, and asked myself, what if I didn't wake up here?

When I opened my eyes... I wasn't.

No warning. No heat. No swirl of magic or clap of thunder. Just nothing, then everything.

I blinked and the cold tile was gone. The white walls were gone. The ceiling, gone.

And the city...

The city was loud.

I arrived in the middle of a market. No one noticed. Why would they? I was just a boy in oversized clothes and empty eyes.

I don't even know how long I stood there. Seconds? Minutes? The vendors shouted over one another. The smells were acidic- oil, smoke, piss, burnt meat. My nose stung.

Someone brushed past me and didn't apologize.

It was wonderful.

I walked until my legs gave out. Curiosity pulled me forward.

The lights were brighter here, but not cleaner. Neon signs buzzed like insects. Horns honked endlessly. People swore at each other with a musical kind of venom. Stray cats hissed from alleys.

I sat on the curb and watched.

A woman with dark lipstick slapped a man for saying the wrong thing. He looked embarrassed. I liked her.

A child was tugged along by their mother, crying because they'd dropped their candy.

No one offered help. I liked that too.

A man with shaking hands sat near a lamp post, holding out a cup. People dropped coins in without looking at him.

That felt familiar.

Eventually, it got cold.

Not in a "don't forget your scarf" way. A deep kind of cold. Villa cold.

I slept behind a vending machine that first night. My arms wrapped around my knees.

My shoes were too clean. I took them off and left them in the street.

The city didn't want clean things.

Neither did I.

Days passed. I stopped counting. There were no maids to tell me what to do. No doctors with questions. No kneeling.

Just me and the noise. And the smell.

And the people.

God, the people.

So many of them. Always moving. Always angry or tired or laughing at things I couldn't understand.

I followed them sometimes.

A man in a suit who always took the same route from the subway to his office. He dropped his coffee lid once. I kept it.

A girl with pink headphones who danced at traffic lights when she thought no one was watching.

An old woman who fed pigeons and spoke to them in riddles.

I didn't talk to them. Not right away.

I just watched.

They reminded me of the furniture. Full of quirks and sounds and invisible logic.

I wondered what would happen if I touched one of them. If they'd flinch. If they'd smile. If they'd break.

I remember the first time I spoke.

It was to a boy my age. Maybe a little older.

He saw me under the bridge, crouched beside a burning oil drum.

He asked, "you lost?"

I smiled at him. "No."

He frowned. "You run away or somethin'?"

"Sort of."

He offered me part of his sandwich.

I took it. Not because I was hungry. I wanted to know how it tasted when someone else gave it willingly.

It was bland.

He asked my name.

"I don't have one."

It was a lie. To see his reaction.

That scared him. Just a little. I could see it in the way his fingers tightened around the sandwich. His face changed.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I've never needed it."

He didn't come back the next night.

Or the next.

A week later, I saw a picture of him on a missing poster.

I blinked. Thought about that sandwich. Thought about how easily people vanish when no one pays attention.

Or maybe it's just because he had offered me a small piece of kindness.

Humans who interacts with devils will live in misery for the rest of their lives.

The first time I killed someone, I didn't mean to.

Not exactly.

I just wanted to know what made him tick.

He was a man who yelled at street vendors. Kicked over trash cans. Wore a gold ring on his left pinky and smelled like alcohol and arrogance.

I followed him. For hours. Slipped through alleyways. Over fences. Watched from rooftops.

I waited until he was alone in a parking lot. He was muttering to himself.

I teleported behind him.

He turned, startled, confused.

"What the f-?"

"Do you bleed the same as everyone else?" I asked.

He didn't answer. He raised his fist.

I tilted my head.

"Wrong response."

I used a broken glass bottle.

He screamed.

Ah. So that's what it sounds like. Not moth like at all.

When he fell to the ground, still twitching, I crouched beside him and pressed my fingers into the wound.

Warm.

Sticky.

Thicker than I expected.

"Why do you sound like that when you're dying?" I asked.

He didn't answer. But I kept asking.

Questions helped me think.

"Do you regret hitting your wife? Do you regret being born? Do you think someone will miss you?"

The parking lot stayed silent.

Except for me.

I cleaned up in a public restroom. Washed my hands three times. Didn't look in the mirror.

Didn't want to.

The news didn't report his death. Just called it a "gang incident." I was disappointed.

Not because I wanted credit.

But because I wanted acknowledgment.

Even if it was just: something happened.

Someone noticed.

That's when I realized something important.

The villa hadn't been a prison.

It had been a preview.

The world, the whole damn city- was just a bigger, louder version of it.

Still cold.

Still indifferent.

Still clean on the outside, filthy underneath.