The sun had climbed high enough to burn through the thin clouds, but the docks didn't get warmer. Sweat ran down TSUF's back anyway, soaking his waistcloth and making the rope burns sting sharper.
Sacks shifted under his grip. He adjusted, pulling one to balance, another to stack neatly. Not fast enough for the foreman, who paced behind, hands on hips, teeth bared in a silent warning. No one spoke. No one needed to.
"Keep moving," someone muttered nearby, barely audible over the scrape of chains and the groan of wet boards.
TSUF nodded. Didn't look up. Didn't answer. Head low, arms steady, legs tired. The rhythm had its own voice now, telling him when to bend, when to straighten, when to rest a fraction of a second.
One misstep—his sandal slipped. He cursed under his breath. A splinter bit his palm as he caught himself on a crate. It hurt more than the rope burns. He didn't stop. Couldn't. Not today.
Coins jingled faintly in the pouch at his waist. He remembered counting them last night. Still not enough. Not by far. But that was life. That was the dock. That was everything he knew.
The men around him grunted, shifted, complained in little bursts of sound that didn't add up to words TSUF could use. The older ones barked orders. The younger ones grumbled and followed. He felt their eyes, the constant watch. Not fear. Not awe. Just observation. Weight.
The foreman's voice cut sharper now. "Faster. Don't let it slack."
TSUF adjusted his grip. Another sack. Another shift. Another curse mumbled under his breath. One of the men glanced sideways at him, smirked, and shook his head. No words. No confrontation. Just subtle judgment.
By mid-afternoon, muscles screamed. His shoulders, back, and fingers burned in concert. Yet the work continued. Every pull was the same. Every step along the wet planks felt like it could end badly if he faltered.
Still, he moved. Because stopping wasn't an option. Because this was how he lived. Because someone had to.
A bell rang in the distance—short, metallic, and easily missed if you weren't listening. Men paused just enough to straighten their backs, breathe in, and then plunge back into the work. TSUF's hands were slick, rope fibers biting, but he didn't falter.
The day pressed on, relentless. The dock would not give him rest. He would not give the dock rest.
And so he pressed forward.