There isn’t a form of pain in this world that doesn’t dull with time, no longing that can be replaced in the deprivation of warmth. Even the sharpest ache eventually blunts, not because it resolves, but because the body and mind grow tired of holding it at full volume. Any horror ends eventually, yet it is the persistent circumstances—the cycles of reignited torment—that seem to scale higher. Pain that returns is rarely the same pain; it mutates, compounds, and arrives with the memory of its predecessors. When one pain ends only to be replaced by another, and then another, the world can feel hollow, as if meaning itself has been scraped out and replaced with repetition.
The abused can feel condemned when containment persists. In years. A span long enough for the mind to build entire architectures of adaptation, and long enough for those architectures to collapse under their own weight. I suppose the vacancy that forms in that void persists along with the pain—an emptiness that becomes its own kind of presence, its own witness, its own echo chamber. Absence becomes a structure.
I wonder whether the pain of a single day can be measured against the pain of years, and if so, how they stack up. A day can be catastrophic in a way that defies scale, a kind of concentrated rupture that burns hotter than the slow erosion of time. Yet years carry their own gravity, a cumulative pressure that shapes a person the way glaciers shape stone. How severe must a single day’s pain be to measure itself against that span. What magnitude of impact is required for one moment to rival the weight of an era.
Life, for all its unpredictability, seems to oscillate between brief reprieves and sudden descents, as if the world were governed by a rhythm no one consented to follow. The rises are often quiet, almost imperceptible—small mercies, fleeting warmth, a momentary loosening of the internal knots. But the falls arrive with choreography, as though someone somewhere had rehearsed them. It is in these oscillations that people begin to suspect design, or at least intention, behind the cruelty. Not cosmic, not mythic—human. The kind engineered by the few who understand how to slip into the seams of social circles, how to bend dynamics, how to twist perception until even the innocent begin to doubt their own footing. In such environments, harm doesn’t always announce itself with violence; sometimes it arrives as distortion, a subtle warping of trust, affection, or belonging.
And when cruelty is engineered rather than accidental, its effects ripple outward in ways that feel disproportionate to the initial act. A single intrusion can fracture a group, a whispered lie can calcify into a narrative, and a manipulated bond can leave someone carrying wounds they cannot name. Occasionally, the consequences become catastrophic—friendships collapse, reputations are buried, and in the worst cases, lives are lost or permanently altered. More often, though, the damage is quieter: emotions twisted into shapes they were never meant to hold, people walking around with shadows that were not originally theirs. Social circles become terrains of uncertainty, where every gesture is double‑checked, every silence interpreted, every warmth questioned. In this way, the engineered cruelty of the few becomes a kind of architecture too—an invisible scaffolding that shapes the lives of many without ever being seen.
- Martin Gravesend
I stepped past the drainage grate and moved deeper into the service alley, the air growing warmer as I approached the ventilation block jutting from the wall like a rust‑plated lung. Bolted sheet metal framed the unit, its panels vibrating with the low, uneven thrum of vents cycling somewhere below. A blast of heat rolled out through the slats, carrying the sour tang of coolant and old machinery. I kept my head down as I passed — the block was fitted with motion sensors, and the last thing I needed was to trigger a diagnostic sweep. Beyond it, the corridor bent sharply left, opening into a narrow walkway overlooking the lower markets.
I paused there, just long enough to think through the route. Reaching Rightview from Sinterlake during lockdown was going to be a problem. After midnight, Darkspire’s markets sealed themselves in layers — shutters, gates, then the roaming checkpoints. Low Town never fully slept; illegal traders thrived in the cracks, and wanderers drifted through the alleys chasing warmth, deals, or trouble. But the Redemptor Knights didn’t care about grey zones. They’d stop anyone without a pass, and I didn’t have one.
I exhaled slowly, watching the steam rise from my breath and vanish into the glow of the overhead lamps. If I wanted to reach Rightview without drawing attention, I’d have to move through the back channels — the ones the Knights avoided because even they didn’t trust what lived down there.
I slipped off the walkway and into the first of the back alleys, a narrow cleft between two warehouse blocks where the ether lights didn’t quite reach. Their pale‑green cones swept rhythmically across the main routes, but here the beams broke against overhangs and rusted fire escapes, leaving pockets of shadow deep enough to disappear into. I kept to those pockets, moving with the deliberate caution that came from too many nights navigating Darkspire’s forgotten arteries.
The alleys formed a crooked lattice, each turn narrowing the world until it felt like I was threading myself through the city’s ribcage. Pipes ran overhead like exposed veins, dripping condensation that pattered against cracked concrete. Somewhere far off, a generator coughed, then settled into a steady hum. The air grew colder as I descended toward the waterway ridge — a slanted embankment of stone and reinforced mesh overlooking the sluggish black channel feeding the lower districts.
I crouched at the ridge’s edge, scanning the path below. The waterway acted as a natural divide: on the far side, the through‑traffic lanes glowed with the intermittent sweep of patrol scouters, their sensors combing for movement. On my side, the ridge offered a narrow ledge hugging the wall, just wide enough for a careful step. Treacherous, but it kept me out of sight — and more importantly, out of the ether lights.
I eased onto the ledge, one hand braced against the cold stone. The water below churned sluggishly, carrying the oily sheen of runoff from the upper vents. I moved slowly, testing each foothold before shifting my weight. Above me, the city’s noise thinned, replaced by the distant clatter of armour plates and the low, modulated voices of a patrol.
Redemptor Knights.
I froze, listening.
Their footfalls were unmistakable — heavy, deliberate, metal greaves striking reinforced ground. The Knights were a militarised peace force, at least by official doctrine. In practice, they were walking fortresses: plated armour, integrated comms, stun‑lances capable of dropping a grown adult before they even realised they’d been targeted. Slow, but it didn’t matter. They didn’t chase. They didn’t need to. Their orders were simple: shoot first, sweep later.
I pressed myself flatter against the ridge wall as the patrol passed above, their ether lamps casting a faint halo through the gaps in the walkway. I held my breath until the last echo of their steps dissolved into the city’s mechanical drone.
Only then did I move again, inching along the ledge until the ridge widened into a maintenance platform. From there, a rusted service hatch led deeper into the alley network — a route the Knights avoided, not out of fear, but out of pragmatism. Their armour didn’t fit in spaces built for technicians half their size.
I slipped through the hatch, letting the darkness swallow me. Rightview was still a long way off, but I was in the channels now — the places where the city forgot its own shape, and where a man without a pass could still move unseen.
Below Darkspire, the underbelly breathed in damp pulses. There was no flooring, only a webwork of rusted piping suspended over slow‑moving sewage — slick, unstable, treacherous. Each step was a gamble. The pipes groaned under my weight, some slick with condensation, others corroded to the bone. Beneath them, the sludge churned in silence, thick with runoff and forgotten waste.
Between the pipework, brief carbon landmasses jutted out like failed promises — hardened deposits of industrial soot and sediment, barely wide enough to lie down on. Rats scurried across them in twitching bursts, their eyes catching the dim glint of emergency strobes long since broken. On these islands, a few outcasts slept in curled silence: wrapped in scavenged thermal foil, limbs tucked tight, faces turned from the light. They were the ones who’d slipped through the cracks and never climbed back — the city’s discarded memory, breathing shallow in the dark.
I moved carefully, my boots finding rhythm on the pipes, my breath low. Down here, the city didn’t care who I was — only whether I could keep my balance. The ceiling began to drop the farther I went, the pipes tightening overhead until I had to crouch, then stoop, then finally crawl. My shoulders scraped rust flakes from the metal as I pushed forward, the air growing warmer and more stagnant. The channel widened ahead of me, but the clearance didn’t — it felt like the city was forcing me to bow before it would let me pass.
When the space finally opened into a broader chamber, I could almost stand again. Almost. The ceiling hung low enough that I had to keep my head bent, like I was moving through the throat of some great machine that had forgotten how to breathe.
That was when the thought hit me — uninvited, but sharp enough to stay.
The confinement of society, or indeed anything ordered, was shown most clearly down here, where the rats were most visibly chewed out by those who claimed to care for them. I watched a mother who looked almost like a leopard, her skin mottled with the marks of a life lived too close to the edge, while her children held out a hat asking for change. I almost laughed at the dual meaning in those words, realising that change may never come. Yet still, I flicked them a coin — for silence, and to leave me be.
Ironic, isn’t it? We see the pain, and we choose silence.
The words echoed in my head longer than the sound of the coin hitting the hat. The words echoed in my head longer than the sound of the coin hitting the hat. When I saw them as I turned — the family I’d passed earlier, now clearer in the dim light bleeding through a cracked maintenance ether lamp.
The children were a pair of shadows at first, then shapes, then faces. Messy‑haired, unkempt, their clothes hanging off them in strips — ripped at the seams, frayed at the cuffs, yet still somehow new beneath the dirt, like someone had handed them charity and the city had immediately taken its cut. Their bare feet were blackened with grime, toes curled against the cold carbon ground. One held the hat out again, the same dented thing, its brim stiff with old stains.
Their mother sat behind them at a makeshift stall — if you could call it that. A plank of warped metal balanced on two crates, covered in trinkets that looked scavenged from a dozen different lives: broken pendants, cracked lenses, a handful of rusted keys, a child’s toy missing its face. She was wrapped in layers of fabric that had once been colours but were now just filth. Her eyes drifted in and out of focus, barely lucid, as though she were only half tethered to the world around her.
When I flicked the coin into the hat, I expected the usual — a nod, a muttered thanks, the quiet transaction of guilt and silence. Instead, her head snapped up with surprising clarity. Her gaze locked onto me, sharp for a moment, cutting through the haze like a blade.
“Hey,” she rasped, voice roughened by cold and exhaustion. “You. Come here.”
The children stepped back instinctively, as if they’d learned long ago that when their mother spoke like that, it was better to give her space. I hesitated, one foot still on the pipe, the other testing the carbon ground. Down here, nothing called you over without wanting something. And nothing wanted something without a cost.