The alley behind the shelter stank of the day that refused to die—rotting scraps from the kitchen, heat trapped in the brick, the bitter tang of oil from the generators. A narrow thread of smoke coiled from the cigarette between my fingers, thin and ghostlike against the dirty wall.
I'd been out here long enough to finish half a pack, thinking about the Highlands—Blackreach. The word itself tasted strange, like something you shouldn't say aloud. Everyone knew better than to go there, but I kept wondering what kind of road led into a place like that.
The coin in my pocket felt heavier with every thought. If I could just get a ride—someone reckless enough to take me past the train yard—then maybe I could walk the rest. Maybe then I'd stop circling the same walls, the same beds, the same nights.
The door creaked open behind me, the hinge whining like a warning. I didn't turn at first. Then I heard the shuffle of steps, slow and familiar. Lionel.
He came scratching his scalp, his buzzcut catching the weak light from the back lamp. Mid-thirties, maybe older, with that hollow-eyed look people get when sleep's been missing for years. His face was mapped by old fights and bad nights—healed-wrong cuts, bruises fading into colors skin shouldn't hold.
"Got one for me?" he said, his voice low and rasped, the kind that sounded like it had been dragged through gravel.
I handed him a cigarette. He took it with a grunt of thanks, lighting it with the same lighter I'd just used. The flame flickered between us, caught the sheen of sweat on his forehead before dying out.
He inhaled deep and exhaled even slower, eyes closing for a second like it was the only peace he knew.
"You've been around here for a while, right?" I asked. "I mean—around Ebonreach."
"Yeah," he said, voice rough but steady. "Long enough to know it stinks the same everywhere."
He laughed at his own words, a laugh that scratched more than it sounded.
Lionel was the kind of man who didn't belong anywhere. On his first day here, he picked a fight with two women over a blanket and ended up being chased with pots and pans until he bled from his ear. You'd think that would've taught him something, but a few days later he came at me instead.
It was just words, though. I don't use my hands. Not because I'm gentle—just because I'm not strong enough. I knew I could call Eddie and the guys, and they'd come running, but it wasn't worth it. Not for someone like Lionel.
After that, he found a corner to claim and stayed there, picking smaller fights that didn't reach me. I'd see him every now and then in this alley, smoking blunts, sniffing something that wasn't smoke. I learned early on to mind my own business.
Tonight, though, I needed his kind of recklessness.
"Do you know anyone with a bike?" I asked after a beat.
He squinted through the smoke. "Why?"
"I just need a ride. Not far. The road past the old train yard."
Lionel tilted his head, the cigarette hanging loose between his lips. "That's a weird place to wanna go."
"Yeah, well." I took a drag, keeping my voice even. "I've got something to check out there."
He studied me for a while, eyes sharp despite the dull glaze over them. Then he chuckled, a sound that cracked at the end.
"Past the train yard, huh? You trying to get yourself killed or just bored of living?"
"Neither," I said. "I just need to get there."
He flicked ash to the ground, then kicked at it with his boot. "You don't fuck around, do you? There's a guy—name's Rook. He's been working delivery routes around that side of town. Not all there in the head, but he's got a bike. Might take you, if you pay him right. You'll find him near the scrapyard most nights."
"Scrapyard?"
"Yeah. He sleeps behind the old cars. You'll smell the oil before you see him."
He took another drag, then looked at me like he was trying to read what was underneath my question. "Why the hell would you want to go that far out anyway?"
I hesitated. "There's someone I need to find."
Lionel's gaze lingered for a second longer before he shrugged, that lazy kind of movement that meant he didn't care enough to ask again. "You're out of your mind, kid."
"Probably."
He smiled, or maybe winced. "You'll fit right in then."
The smoke between us drifted higher, thinning into the dark. The alley stretched on, quiet except for the faint sound of Lionel's rough breathing and the crackle of burning tobacco.
When I finished my cigarette, I crushed it under my heel and looked at him. "Thanks."
He waved me off, muttering, "Don't thank me when Rook drives you straight into hell."
Maybe that was the point.
The night air bit sharper when I stepped back inside. The smell of the shelter hit me again—bleach, sweat, and lost things—and I already knew I wouldn't be sleeping. Not tonight. Maybe not for a long time.
Because somewhere past that train yard, the road waited. And the devil, if he really was there, had just started listening.
The walk to the scrapyard took longer than I remembered. The afternoon heat clung to us like a damp sheet, the air thick with the scent of gasoline and sunburnt metal. Ebonreach looked uglier in daylight—buildings baked pale by the sun, glass catching too much light, streets alive with noise but empty in feeling.
Eddie walked beside me, half a step behind, kicking at stray cans and cursing every second step. "I don't know why you're so adamant on going to the scrapyard," he said, wiping sweat off his neck. "I can get you anyone to take you to that damn road."
"I don't want anyone we know, clean favors are expensive." I said.
He frowned. "What? You'd rather go with a complete stranger?"
"You were a stranger once."
He scoffed. "Yeah, so were the guys who beat you senseless that night. Look, man, I'm all for supporting whatever shit you've got cooking, but I still don't get it."
I sighed, long and tired. "Okay, listen. You remember that magician I told you about? The one who moves stuff without touching it?"
"Yeah, Igor or whatever."
"Right. So that guy Deus I told you about—he said it's black magic. Said there's a way for me to learn it. To do what they do."
Eddie stopped walking. His sneakers scraped the concrete. "Oh hell no," he said. "No fucking way."
"What?"
"You're going to the Highlands?" His voice shot up. "You're trying to kill yourself."
"Man, Igor's alive. Doing fine. He's got videos, shows, everything."
"Yeah, and you're about to play tug-of-war with demons and call the rope a trophy." He shook his head. "You're fucking with something way bigger than life."
I started walking again. "Life's shit anyway."
"Don't start with that crap," he said, catching up. "You don't want me glued to your side twenty-four-seven, do you?"
I chuckled under my breath. "Don't worry. I'm not thinking about it."
"Bullshit," he muttered. "You're going to get yourself claimed by some black magic, you idiot."
"Claimed," I repeated, smiling faintly. "Sounds dramatic."
We kept walking until the air began to change. It grew heavy, sour with the scent of rot and iron. The scrapyard was close; I could taste it already, that sharp tang of corroded metal and oil gone rancid.
Eddie covered his nose with the back of his hand. "Damn, that stench."
"Smelt worse in Kal's place."
He glared at me. "Shut your mouth! Kal never let his place smell this bad. He even had a bidet, for Christ's sake."
I laughed, pushing at the warped metal door that marked the yard's entrance. It groaned open with a drawn-out shriek, and heat rolled out from inside like breath from an open furnace.
The scrapyard stretched ahead, an ocean of metal skeletons piled high, rust eating away at their edges. Broken cars sat with doors hanging loose, their windows clouded with dust. A maze of twisted iron and half-buried engines cut the horizon into jagged shapes. The ground crunched beneath our shoes—shards of glass, bottle caps, and bolts scattered like bones.
A flock of crows perched on an overhead wire, their cries cutting sharp through the thick air. Somewhere deeper inside, a piece of machinery creaked, shifting under its own weight. The smell was unbearable up close—a mix of burnt rubber, gasoline, and old rain trapped in the hollowed shells of cars.
"Jesus," Eddie said. "You sure you want to find someone who lives here?"
I stepped forward, scanning the rows of wreckage. The sun caught on a glint of chrome, on a half-melted license plate, on something that might've once been a mirror. The air shimmered faintly, like the place was alive in its own slow decay.
"Yeah," I said. "Pretty sure."
Eddie sighed, muttering something under his breath about lunatics and lost causes.
We moved deeper into the yard, the world narrowing to the scrape of our shoes and the lazy buzz of flies circling what the heat had left behind. Somewhere ahead, a faint sound—music maybe, or the static hum of an old radio—floated through the air.
I glanced at Eddie. "You hear that?"
He nodded warily. "Yeah. And I don't like it."
Neither did I.
But I kept walking.
The coin in my pocket felt heavier with each step.
We walked until the maze of metal thinned out and a small building appeared at the far end of the yard. It looked like a cube left behind by accident—one story high, walls eaten by rust, a dented door hanging crooked on its hinges. The windows were blacked out with grime. A single vent wheezed from the top, releasing air that smelled of something faintly burnt. For a second it synced with my breath, then didn't.
Eddie slowed his pace. "This it?"
"Has to be," I said.
We stopped before the door. I raised my hand and knocked twice. The sound echoed dull against the metal. Before I could knock again, the door creaked open on its own.
We both froze.
The hinges groaned, and a sliver of darkness opened up between us and whatever waited inside. I glanced at Eddie; he looked back at me, one eyebrow raised, his mouth pulled in a thin line.
"Maybe the wind?" I muttered.
"There's no wind," he said.
He exhaled, then poked his head in cautiously, pushing me backward with his arm as if I were a shield he wasn't ready to use.
"Hello?" he called out.
The smell hit us first—fuel, smoke, and something sour like old sweat.
I stumbled a step back, my shoulder bumping into something solid.
When I turned, my stomach dropped.
Something solid touched my shoulder blade. I turned.
A man stood inches behind me—tall, broad, beard to his chest, beanie low. Eyes the color of old brass.
My breath caught. "A-are you Rook?"
Eddie turned at the sound of my voice, fast, his shoes scraping against the gravel.
The man studied me for a moment, his brow furrowed. Then, in a slow, gravel-thick voice, he said, "How do you know me?"
"There's a man I know," I said quickly, trying to keep my voice from shaking. "Named Lionel. He said I could find you here."
Rook's face changed. He laughed, a sound that cracked through the air like breaking wood. "Lionel sent you? Where's that bastard?"
I exhaled, half laughing from relief. "He's staying at the same shelter as me. Said you have a motorcycle, and that you could take me somewhere."
"Yeah," Rook said, scratching his beard, still grinning. "Sure. As long as Lionel sent you. We were in the same cell together. Good man. Bit of a lunatic, but good man."
Cell. I nodded awkwardly, pretending not to catch the word the way I did. Jail, then. Of course it was.
Behind me, Eddie cleared his throat, about to say something stupid, probably something that would get us thrown out or worse. I lifted a hand without turning around, a silent wait.
"I need to go to the old train yard," I said.
Rook's grin faded, his eyebrows lifting slightly. "Oh… okay."
I blinked. That easy?
"How much?" I asked.
"Seventy pounds."
"Fair enough," I said, before Eddie could open his mouth again. "Tomorrow."
Rook nodded once. "Where do I pick you up?"
"Christo's Deli. Five in the evening."
"Alright then."
He extended his hand. His palm was rough, lined with black grease, nails rimmed with dirt. I hesitated for a second, then reached out. His grip clamped down—too strong, too deliberate. I felt the bones in my fingers strain.
When he finally let go, I flexed my hand behind my back, the ache pulsing through my knuckles.
Eddie looked between us, still uneasy. "We done here?"
"Yeah," I said, stepping back. "We're done."
Rook gave a nod that felt more like dismissal and disappeared into the dark of the doorway, closing it behind him with a slow, hollow thud.
Eddie waited until we were a few steps away before muttering, "That guy looks like he buries people for sport."
"Probably does," I said, half-smiling, half not.
The sun had dropped low enough that the sky turned copper behind the towers of scrap metal. As we walked out of the yard, the sound of our steps echoed between the piles, like something was following close but never catching up.
I reached into my pocket, my fingers brushing the coin again—its chill cutting through the heat still hanging in the air.
Tomorrow at five.
The road past the train yard.
And maybe beyond that, whatever waited in Blackreach.
The walk back felt longer than before. The scrapyard's stench still clung to our clothes—rust, oil, the sour tang of rot that stuck in the back of the throat. The sun had started to fall, bleeding red behind the skyline, turning the puddles on the street into streaks of copper. Eddie kicked at a stone as we walked, his mood as heavy as the air around us.
After a while, he said, "You know, we never got to hear Riley's will. But I'm a hundred percent sure he would've asked us to look after you."
I looked ahead, hands shoved deep in my pockets. "You already do."
"No," he said, his voice rising slightly. "I've been trying, time and time again, but you don't let anyone help you anymore."
"I never stopped asking for help," I said. "I asked you to come with me today, didn't I?"
He shot me a look.
"I'm doing this," I went on, "so I don't end up like Riley. And so I can help you. All of you."
Eddie laughed, short and sharp. "No one asked you for help, man! We just want you to take care of yourself."
I turned toward him. "Are you happy where you are? Fifteen years in the same grind, pushing pills and bags like it's a career? You were a kid being used, Eddie. Don't you ever want to walk away from that? To have a clean life?"
He stopped, then shoved me hard in the shoulder. "Watch your mouth," he said. "We all came from the same ground. You're not better than us."
I steadied myself and stood still. "I'm not claiming to be better," I said, my voice low but steady. "I want to be better. There's no place for me in this world while I'm weak, poor, and alone. And don't get me wrong—I know I have you, Poppy, the guys—but is this really living? Can't I dream of something more than scraps?"
Eddie's face tightened. "You can dream all you want. But this route?" He pointed toward the road ahead. "Black magic? That's not a dream, Hugo. That's suicide."
I shook my head, the words spilling faster than I meant them to. "Even my dreams are grim. When I sleep, it's just dark, heavy. I wake up more tired than before. It feels like I'm—"
My phone rang, cutting through the moment. The screen lit up with Harry's name. I sighed, pressing my palm over my face. "Oh, for fuck's sake."
Eddie squinted. "Who's that?"
"Harry," I said.
"Your cousin, right? He seems like a kind guy."
"He's too kind," I said, half laughing, half cursing. "Way too kind for his own good. I just wish he'd leave me alone."
"Maybe let him help you," Eddie said. "If he can help, why not?"
"He can't do shit," I said. "He's in college, studying medicine. He's got his life together. You think he wants to be tied to someone like me? You think he wants people to know we're related?"
Eddie shrugged. "Doesn't seem like he minds."
"Just shut up, Eddie," I said, pocketing my phone. "And don't worry—I won't ask you to come with me again."
He fell quiet after that. The air between us turned heavy again, not angry, just full of things we wouldn't say out loud. We walked side by side through the streets of Ebonreach, our shadows stretching long and uneven under the streetlights.
I could still feel the weight of Rook's handshake in my fingers, the promise of the road waiting for me tomorrow.
If this was what it took to be better, then so be it.
Eddie walked a little ahead, shoulders hunched, hands shoved deep in his pockets. Watching him like that, I felt something shift in my chest. For all his noise and sharpness, there was a steadiness in him that I leaned on more than I'd ever admit. Sometimes, when he talked, it wasn't like a friend talking—it was like something older, heavier, the voice of someone who'd seen too much and still stayed. In the quiet moments, I used to think maybe this was what having a father was supposed to feel like. Someone who argued, yelled, cursed—but still showed up.
I didn't have the words to tell him that. I wasn't good at gratitude.
Riley's absence had left holes in all of us. None of us were built to lose him, not like that. He was the center we didn't realize we were orbiting until he was gone, and when he left, everything tilted. We all started reaching for something to hold on to—Eddie with his anger, Poppy with her jokes, me with my ghosts. And the city, cruel as it was, didn't give anyone the time to heal.
We turned a corner, passing a row of shuttered shops. Somewhere in the distance, a bus rumbled by, its lights flashing across the puddles on the street. I watched the reflection disappear and thought of that one place Riley once took me—an uptown stretch where the streets were clean and the air smelled of rain and bread. People there didn't walk like they were trying to survive; they walked like they had somewhere good to go.
It was still Ebonreach, but it didn't feel like it. It was lighter. I remembered thinking, so this is where the city hides its heart.
I wanted to go back there. Back to where people breathed air that didn't taste of smoke, where food didn't come from dented cans, where you could take a step without sinking into gutter water.
Was that too much to ask for?