[A/N: I'd like to just state ahead of time that this piece switches from present to past tense merely because I wasn't paying attention while writing it, nor do I care to fix it. All pieces in this book are experimental and may not even make it into the finished project; they are merely ways for me to organize my thoughts/plots, develop characters, and devise scenarios. If there's too much exposition, I'm sorry. I just need to write all this without overthinking it xD]

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Morning arrives unceremoniously, toting heavy clouds and a greasy drizzle of miserable rain. Alarm blares, snatching Nyx from the warm embrace of sleep. Bleary-eyed, he swats his clock off the night table and plants both feet on the floor, stretching his arms above his head whilst muttering a morning prayer.

   The apartment is silent and still, just as it always is. Nyx takes comfort in this familiarity, dismissing whatever occurred last night as merely a bad dream.

   Yes, last night was nothing short of a nightmare...

   As he moves to grab some clothes for the day he discovers his left leg is a bit stiff, the ankle of which bears telltale signs of the puncture wounds responsible for this.

  Perhaps last night wasn't merely a nightmare, after all.

   Unease hovers about him like the polluted fog outside as he begins to recall last night's incident. The kid. Is he still here? Did he leave? To be sure, Nyx tiptoes around, making a full sweep of his apartment. Everything is as it was before he went to sleep: cabinets left open, a mess of items in the sink–all of it is the same, minus the feral boy. While the lack of his presence should be relieving, it is completely the opposite–almost chilling. He doubles back, making a couple more full assessments of his dwelling before concluding that indeed, he is all alone here.

   There's no sign of someone escaping in an irregular fashion, which is odd because all the latches are still sealed completely shut. The only way for them to seal after someone leaves the apartment would be if they locked it from the outside, and Nyx only has one key. And that key is attached to a carabiner clip, which is fastened to one of the loops on his cargos.

  Fumbling through the kitchen Nyx tidies up before throwing on a jacket and locking the door behind him. Greasy rain drizzles from above. Nyx opens his umbrella and begins the monotonous trek to the depot, taking as many main passes as possible to avoid the rabble in the alleys. In spite of the claims that Urbana's inhabitants keep to themselves, there are always plenty of unsavory characters lurking in the darkest places–begging for money, looking for drugs, or even looking for sanity.

   Having been raised in a modest lower-class family, Nyx had been trained from his youth to avoid such encounters. And while stealth had never been his forte, he'd become quite good at it in recent years. He pitied those poor folks, sure, and he always made sure to include them in his prayers, but he also knew that there was a time and place to get involved with certain individuals, and right now was not the time, and here was not the place. On some occasions he would give spare currency to the destitute, though citizenship in Urbana made practically everyone destitute.

   Nyx always told himself that he only lived here because it was all he could afford for now, and that once he had saved enough money, he would shake the greasy rain from his boots and settle down somewhere nicer, cleaner, and safer. Perhaps even meet a nice girl, get married, and raise a family with her. That would be ideal.

   Ideals, faith, and his umbrella were pretty much all he had to hold onto for now, however. He supposed it would have to suffice.

   As he fed bits of currency into one of the turnstiles, he couldn't help but glance around. The underground depot was wanting in many things; maintenance being the foremost. Hewn from limestone, the walls were so cracked and over-graffitied, one would never know from first glance what they were actually constructed from. Fissures spread like stone spiderwebs across the platforms, flickering fluorescent lights provided very dim visibility to the place.

   If one were to dwell too long on the surroundings of this locale, they'd certainly fall into despair.

   For a Friday morning, the depot was rather empty. Nyx supposed most people either lived conveniently close to their places of employment, or they simply just didn't work. That was the norm around here: scrape together just enough if you could, or just live off the streets until enforcement locks you away–that is, if disease didn't get to you first. Disease was a very common problem with streetdwellers.

   Silent and silver, though tarnished and in need of a good buffing, a metro train slid into the station. Nyx stood closest to where the back of the train would halt, for his social status was too low to be considered acceptable for the more accommodating cars. As soon as the doors opened he shouldered his way inside, cramming his bulky frame into the small and already crowded car. In effort to give others some space, he wove through the mass of bodies until he reached a relatively empty pocket, toward the far back of the car. There was no room to sit, but that was fine. He could stand.

   As if to bear more testament to its long-overdue maintenance, the train lurched forward with a screech as it made its start; the ride soon smoothed out as it gained momentum, but the beginning of the journey was always rougher than one might expect. It was also much slower than any of the larger city trains, though Urbana locals wouldn't know that. Most never traveled out of the city.

   Nyx dug in his pockets, wanting to pass the time listening to music. It didn't take him long to remember that his music player–wherever it might be now–had been essentially stolen from him by that feral boy.

   Emory. Nyx didn't know what to make of the kid. Sure, he seemed alright when he wasn't freaking out, and definitely had plenty of intelligence, but there was something off about him. Something that plagued Nyx's mind the way the bite wounds plagued his ankles. They were healing at an alarming rate, but that just caused all the more discomfort.

   That stupid ankle-biter had taken Nyx's music player and now it was gone, and Nyx couldn't afford to get another one. It wasn't like he'd die without it, but...it had been a gift from his father. The thing had more sentimental value than Nyx ever cared to let on, and now it was gone. Vanished. Probably broken, after all the tussling that had endured during its disappearance. Some street rat probably had it now, probably pawned off the various components so they could get money for more cigarettes.

   He'd feel less terrible about it if he could only hope that a family had pawned it for groceries, but that wasn't usually the case around here. If anyone pawned anything, it was usually because they needed to satisfy an addiction. Not always, but usually.

   Nyx's mood was quickly growing sour as the train sped on. The car had windows, but as most trains ran underground, there was nothing to look at but darkness and the occasional cracked wall illuminated by dodgy fluorescents. Without music to help him pass the time, each moment seemed to tick by a bit too slowly. Normally he wouldn't mind, but last night had messed with him, and his ankles still burned, and this train was too crowded with too many people, and he really, really didn't want to go to work today.

   He had to catch himself there. Was he sick? Work was something to dread. And people generally didn't bother him as long as they'd just mind their own; and to be fair, he quite liked them. People made life interesting. They made the world a curious place. He couldn't let the inconvenience of a missing music player ruin his appreciation for mankind. After all, it certainly wasn't the public's fault he'd chosen to get involved with a feral kid who liked to snatch things. He could only blame himself for this entire predicament.

    Even so, he was beginning to feel claustrophobic and hoped the journey wouldn't tarry much more.

* * *

Beans & Creme. A tiny, well-to-do establishment. Located in the suburban outskirts of Murder City, the small cafe had originated from another planet. While its original franchisees had long since been deemed racially unacceptable and had their licenses revoked, the new owners allowed it to remain a cultural cesspool. Wit, Unknown, Phantom, Fae–it didn't matter who you were, as long as you were an upstanding citizen and patron. And though the coffee was no longer imported from the planet of its humble origins, it remained as popular as ever among the middle and lower class. Only high-class citizens considered it too controversial to step foot in such a place, as they felt that such an establishment was a mere mockery or what it had once been.

   There was nothing gourmet about Beans & Creme anymore; it was barely a shadow of what it once had been. Nyx rather preferred it this way, as he never had to pander to the hoity-toity Elite and their–often political–ideals.

   Comforting, robust scents of roasted coffee overwhelmed his senses as he entered through the back door and switched out his jacket for a brown apron.

   It was the simplest of wardrobe changes, nothing special, yet this uniform gave him a sense of importance. A barista was not an essential part of the workforce, and yet in many ways it was. Without the convenience of having someone else make your coffee, how much harder would the morning commute be? Nyx liked to think that the coffee business was as essential as any; people relied so heavily on the presence of cafes and coffee shops to get them their early caffeine fix so they could keep going. Any student, worker, or parent could tell you that there's just something comforting about a hot–or cold–cup of joe. Warm familiarity, nostalgia; a type of comfort that makes it necessary.

   His first customers were two highschool students from Urbana. A dark-haired fellow named Dylan, and his cousin Ben. They turned up quite regularly, and Nyx often wondered to himself how they managed to make it here and back in time for school.

   The two would often joke amongst themselves as they stood waiting for their drinks, so Nyx almost thought nothing of the conversation they were having at the moment. He was busy ringing up a girl who was almost too short to see over the high counter–one of the cafe's only design flaws–but in spite of this, he managed to overhear some of the boys' remarks.

   "So he's gone?"

   "Yeah. I thought mom would be happy about it but she's, like, really irritated. She's going to beat him senseless next time he turns up."

   "Serves him right."

   These remarks could have been made in reference to Ben's brother, Tate, who was quite often the object of the boys' lighthearted gossip. Nyx hated that he could even remember such a thing. But the words didn't seem to be about Tate this time. They seemed to be about someone else; although, he could not recall Dylan ever mentioning having any siblings other than an older sister. And he only knew she existed because she worked here. Rachel was her name. Bubbly, talkative, but rather quiet when matters pertained to her family.

   Choosing not to dwell on the boys' words–after all, it was really none of his business–Nyx handed some change to the short girl and motioned the next patron to come forward. Through the corner of his eye, he watched Dylan and Ben leave with their drinks. They were still talking loudly about whomever Dylan's mother was going to beat.

   Nyx shook his head. The casualness regarding violence these days was unreal. He supposed that was why people were often so untrusting, always looking over their shoulders, always avoiding one another. There was a strong sense of discord among the masses, and it pained him. Not more than a decade ago, things had been much different. People had been kinder. Accepting. Less prejudiced.

   Nowadays, if you were anything other than a Wit, you would be judged.