A year is enough time for the orphanage to replace faces.
New kids arrive, older ones vanish, beds shift owners. Ryu notices because he pays attention. Most people just call it "life."
He's eight now. That fact hits him when Sister reads out the roll one morning and says his name in the "older kids" group instead of "you lot."
Small difference. Heavy implication.
After breakfast, she taps the table with a spoon.
"Listen up," she says. "We have someone from the city office coming this afternoon. They're doing the yearly check. I expect you all to pretend you're well-behaved."
Groans. A few laughs.
Ryu glances at the older teens. There are fewer of them this year.
"Is this the one where they decide which of us they throw out?" he asks Daro quietly.
Daro snorts. "They don't throw you out. They just tell you it's time and hope you don't cry."
"How comforting," Ryu mutters.
The city official arrives with the exact expression you'd expect on someone who audits orphanages for a living: tired, polite, and already bored.
He's middle-aged, decent suit, hair thinning but slicked back in defiance. Clipboard under one arm. He walks through the halls with Sister, asking questions in a flat voice.
"How many children this quarter?"
"Any major health issues?"
"School attendance?"
"Any behavioral problems?"
"Only the usual," Sister says dryly.
They stop in the main hall. The kids are lined up in rough age clusters.
The official runs a practiced eye over them.
"These," Sister says, nodding toward the teens, "are thirteen and fourteen. We're working with the employment office to place them."
"You know the guidelines," the man says. "Ideally, they move on by fourteen. Sixteen at the latest, in special cases."
"And the 'special cases' are getting rarer," Sister replies.
"Budget constraints," he says. "You know how it is."
"Yes," she says. "I do."
Ryu files that away.
Fourteen is when the city expects you to stop being "orphanage problem" and start being "labor problem."
Sixteen if you're lucky. Or unlucky, depending on how much you like shared dorms and watery stew.
Later, when the official is gone and the tension leaks out of the walls, Ryu corners Sister near the storage room.
"How long are we allowed to stay?" he asks, straight out.
She eyes him. "Planning to move out already?"
"Planning to not be surprised," he says.
She sighs.
"In theory," she says, "the city wants most of you placed by fourteen. Apprenticeship, work, schooling if you're lucky. After that, you go to youth housing or lodgings with your employer. We keep a few older ones here if they're still in school or have… difficulties."
"Difficulties," he repeats.
"Health. Behavior. No placements. The city doesn't like it, but they tolerate it if we don't make noise."
"So," he says. "If I'm not an idiot and I don't break, I'm out by fourteen."
"More or less," she says. "Which is six years away. Try not to rush."
He doesn't say, it's not six years, it's six years until I'm even allowed to start doing what I actually want. He just nods.
"Do we get anything when we leave?" he asks. "Besides a pat on the head and a bill for all the porridge."
She snorts despite herself.
"You get papers," she says. "ID. Registration. References if you didn't spend your time lighting things on fire. Sometimes the city offers a small stipend if you go into training or school. Some employers provide bed and food. If not, there's youth housing. It's not pleasant, but it's a roof."
"And what about 'teaching us to survive out there'?" he asks. "Is there a module for that, or do we get thrown into the deep end and graded on drowning technique?"
"We do what we can," she says. "Budget and time are not on our side. We work with a couple of workshops and shops. Try to place kids early to learn something. Basic money lessons. How not to sign away your life in a contract."
"Good skill," he says. "I should get that one early."
She looks at him for a long second.
"You probably will," she says. "If you stay alive and keep that mouth of yours only half as sharp in front of employers."
"I'll put it on a dimmer," he says.
She shakes her head and walks off.
He stands there alone for a moment, listening to the echo of fourteen in his skull.
Six years.
It sounds like a lot.
In a world like this, it's nothing.
Fine, he thinks. Then I start acting like someone who's leaving. Not today. But eventually.
Money. Skills. Contacts.
He has none of those yet.
Time to fix that.
....................................
The workshop behind the industrial quarter doesn't look like a plan. It looks like a bad cough.
Rusted metal siding. A sliding door that sticks. Windows filmed with dust. When Ryu first came here with Sister's letter, he noted all that.
He also noted the machines he heard inside, the smell of oil and metal, the way the owner's hands shook slightly when he opened the door.
Now he's back. Alone.
He knocks. Three short taps.
The door opens a crack. The same man peers out: late thirties, maybe, hair pulled back, eyes lined like he's spent years squinting at small parts.
"You're the boy from the home," the man says.
"Depends," Ryu says. "Did the boy annoy you? If yes, that wasn't me."
The man huffs once. "You sound the same, so it's you. What do you want?"
"Sister said you sometimes take on helpers," Ryu says. "Cheap ones. I'm qualified."
Suspicion crosses the man's face.
"You're eight," he says.
"Congratulations, you can count," Ryu says mildly. "I can sweep, carry, not break things, and follow instructions. I don't faint on stairs anymore. You need someone like that?"
The man studies him for a moment, then opens the door fully.
Inside, the workshop is cramped and cluttered. Workbenches, tools hanging from walls, metal parts in bins with handwritten labels. A couple of machines squat in the back, silent for now.
"The pay is bad," the man says. "Hours are worse. You get hurt, I patch you up and tell Sister. If you steal, I throw you out. If I get in trouble because of you, I throw you out harder. Clear?"
"Glowing review," Ryu says. "Clear."
"You can start by sweeping," the man says, tossing him a broom. "Name's Haim."
"Ryu," he says.
He starts sweeping.
The work isn't glamorous. Shocker.
He sweeps metal shavings, wipes down benches, carries boxes that feel slightly heavier each week. Sometimes Haim has him hold a lamp while he squints into the guts of a machine. Sometimes Ryu runs small errands: bolts from a supplier, a part from a neighboring shop.
He doesn't ask for explanations. Not at first. He just watches.
What tools Haim reaches for without thinking. How he measures. How carefully he treats some parts, how roughly he handles others. When he curses, and why.
At the end of the first week, Haim hands him a small envelope.
Ryu opens it in the alley outside. A few folded bills stare back.
Not much. But not nothing.
He stares at them for a second, feeling something sharp and new in his chest.
First money in this life.
Earned, not donated, not stolen.
He doesn't go spend it on snacks like some of the other kids would. He walks back to the orphanage, goes to his bed, and slides the bills into a slit he cut into the underside of the frame.
Not the most secure hiding place, but better than under a pillow.
Daro sees the motion.
"You hiding contraband?" Daro asks later, when they're alone.
"Something like that," Ryu says.
"From Sister?"
"From everyone."
Daro leans back, considering.
"You getting paid?" he asks. "At the workshop?"
"A little," Ryu says.
"Is it bad?" Daro presses.
"It's work," Ryu says. "Work isn't supposed to feel good."
Daro grimaces. "You gonna leave early?" he asks. "When you have enough?"
"'Enough' isn't a number I can reach in single digits," Ryu says. "But I plan to not be surprised when they decide I'm old enough to stop feeding."
He doesn't say and I plan to not rely only on whatever the city decides is a 'fair start.' He just lies back and stares at the ceiling.
His body aches from the day. It's a different ache from running, from carrying sacks. More specific. More… adult.
It feels like progress.
One evening, he stays a little later than usual at the workshop.
Haim is bent over a machine, adjusting something with fine pliers.
"You can go," Haim says without looking up. "You've done enough sweeping to wage war on dust."
Ryu doesn't move.
"You're behind on this one," he says. "You were working on it yesterday."
Haim grunts. "Client wants it done by tomorrow. I misjudged how bad the damage was."
"Can I help?" Ryu asks.
"Know how to disassemble a hydraulic pump?" Haim asks dryly.
"Not yet," Ryu says. "But I can hand you tools faster than you can get them yourself."
There's a pause.
"Fine," Haim says. "If you get in the way, I kick you out."
"Standard contract," Ryu says.
He stands nearby, watching every movement, passing tools when Haim gestures. Somewhere in the middle, Ryu starts to see the pattern: this connects to that, this seals this, this piece fails and everything chokes.
Haim swears at a stripped thread.
"Why do you even bother?" Ryu asks quietly. "Isn't it easier to throw it out and buy new?"
"Because I'm not a rich idiot," Haim says. "And neither are my clients. Machines can live longer than people if you treat them right."
Ryu files that away.
Things that last if you care for them properly. Including bodies. Including plans.
They finish late. Haim straightens slowly, rubbing his back.
Ryu's arms feel like someone poured lead into them.
"You want extra pay for staying?" Haim asks.
Ryu considers.
"Two questions instead," he says.
Haim raises an eyebrow. "What am I, a library?"
"Cheaper than hiring a tutor," Ryu says. "First question: when did you start working?"
"Too young," Haim says. "But officially? Twelve."
"And when did you move out of wherever you came from?"
"Thirteen," Haim says. "Youth housing. Cramped. Noisy. Better than the street." He gives Ryu a look. "Planning early, aren't you?"
"Trying not to panic late," Ryu says. "Second question: do you need someone to help here longer-term? In a few years, I mean."
"If this place is still standing and I'm not dead," Haim says. "Maybe. If you don't turn out useless."
"That's almost encouraging," Ryu says.
"Don't get used to it," Haim says. "Go home."
Back in his bed, Ryu's whole body throbs.
But his stash under the frame grows a little every week. His knowledge grows with it: tools, machines, timelines, adult lives.
The orphanage still feeds him, still gives him a bed, still forces him to sit through basic lessons.
Now, though, he has something else.
A path.
Not a final one. A stepping stone.
Good, he thinks, eyes closing. Step one: reliable wage. Step two: options.
He doesn't know yet which path will take him closest to the Hunter Exam.