Low Tier Seven woke before the siren.

  It always did these days. Like there was something in the air, no one could sit still. Yesterday, Kael learned the missing kids weren’t just in his head, and that sat heavy with him.

  The sound came later — metal screaming against metal, a single rising note that rattled loose stone and set teeth on edge — but the tier itself was already stirring long before that. Coughs echoed through the shelter. Someone retched near the wash trough. A baby cried and was shushed hard enough that the crying stopped too abruptly to be comforting.

  Kael lay on his mat with his eyes open, staring at the low ceiling where moisture had darkened the stone into irregular constellations. He listened to the breathing around him and tried to sort it into patterns.

  Too shallow meant sickness.

  Too slow meant exhaustion that would catch up later.

  Too still meant… something else.

  No one was too still today.

  That didn’t reassure him as much as it should have. Few things did anymore, ever since Denzel went missing. Kael couldn’t stop waiting for the shoe to drop. That was how he knew he had to find him — or at least try to.

  When the siren finally came, it felt late.

  The sound ripped through the shelter, sharp and unavoidable, and bodies began to move. Not all at once. Not urgently. People here didn’t scramble unless there was a reason to, and the siren wasn’t one. It was just the start of the day — the signal that whatever little time you had managed to steal for yourself overnight was officially over.

  Kael sat up and rolled his shoulders, feeling the familiar stiffness complain and then settle. Riven was already up, pulling on his boots with quick, practiced motions.

  “You hear anything?” Riven asked quietly.

  Kael shook his head. “Same as yesterday.”

  Riven grunted. He didn’t look relieved.

  They joined the slow flow out of the shelter, passing the ration wall on the way. A board had been nailed there sometime in the night — new wood, still pale — listing today’s allotments in blocky charcoal script.

  Grain paste: reduced.

  Water: unchanged.

  Protein: conditional.

  Conditional was new.

  A woman stood staring at the word, lips moving silently as she reread it. When Kael brushed past, she grabbed his sleeve.

  “What does that mean?” she asked, voice tight. “Conditional on what?”

  Kael gently pulled free. “It means not everyone gets it.”

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  She stared at him, then laughed once, sharp and brittle. “They don’t even bother lying anymore.”

  Riven caught Kael’s eye as they moved on.

  “That’s three days this cycle,” he murmured. “They’ve never cut protein three days in a row.”

  “Maybe the carts are late,” Kael said.

  Riven snorted. “Carts are never late for food.”

  They took the long way toward Hall C, cutting through the outer lanes where the buildings leaned close enough together that the sky became a narrow strip of dull grey overhead. Tier Seven architecture didn’t pretend to be permanent. Repairs layered over repairs, stone patched with scavenged metal, doorframes warped by years of swelling and rot.

  The smell changed block by block.

  Rotting waste near the drains.

  Old oil near the processing halls.

  Sweat, smoke, and unwashed bodies everywhere.

  A group of kids huddled near a closed storefront, poking at something on the ground with a stick. Kael glanced over and saw a dead rat, belly split open, ribs picked clean.

  “Did you hear about Eight?” one of the kids said as Kael passed.

  “No,” another replied. “What?”

  “They took four last week. Not reassigned. Just… gone.”

  “Everyone gets reassigned eventually.”

  Kael didn’t slow. But he listened.

  At the junction where Tier Seven met the upper ramps toward Six, a line had formed. Guards stood shoulder to shoulder, batons loose in their hands, blocking the ascent. A tallyman sat at a narrow table, slate propped against his knee.

  “Tier Six access only,” the tallyman droned. “Names checked. Move along.”

  Someone protested — quietly, at first — but the baton came down hard enough to end the discussion.

  Riven leaned close. “They’ve been blocking that ramp more often.”

  Kael nodded. “They don’t want traffic.”

  “Or witnesses.”

  They turned away and headed for Hall C.

  Work smelled like blood.

  Not fresh — not the sharp, coppery tang of a recent kill — but the deeper, heavier stench of processed flesh and old stains baked into stone. This hall handled monster remnants from the outer patrols: hide stripping, bone sorting, gland extraction. Nothing glamorous. Nothing heroic.

  Just pieces.

  Kael took his station without comment and pulled on gloves stiff with dried residue. The slab in front of him held a broad-backed carcass, already partially skinned. He set to work with efficient motions, blade finding seams he’d memorized months ago.

  Around him, the hall hummed with low noise: the scrape of knives, the clatter of hooks, the occasional barked order from a supervisor. Conversation stayed minimal. Talking slowed you down, and slow workers didn’t keep their rations.

  A boy two stations over leaned in and whispered, “You hear about Denzel?”

  Kael didn’t look up. “No.”

  “They say he got moved.”

  “Moved where?”

  The boy shrugged. “Up. Or down. Depends who you ask.”

  Riven, working the adjacent slab, said quietly, “He didn’t pack.”

  The boy blinked. “What?”

  “Denzel,” Riven repeated. “He didn’t pack.”

  That gave the boy pause.

  People who got reassigned packed. Even if it was sudden, you grabbed something. A blanket. A cup. Shoes, if you were lucky enough to have more than one pair.

  The supervisor’s shadow passed nearby, and the conversation died immediately.

  They worked until their hands ached and their shoulders burned, until the siren sounded again — shorter this time, signaling break. Kael rinsed his blade and stepped back, flexing his fingers.

  At the water trough, a man from Tier Eight leaned against the wall, face grey with fatigue.

  “My nephew disappeared,” the man said to no one in particular.

  No one answered.

  “Sixteen,” the man continued. “Strong. Never caused trouble. They said reassignment. That was four days ago.”

  A woman across from him shook her head. “Mine too. Fifteen. From Nine.”

  That got attention.

  “Nine?” someone repeated. “They don’t pull from Nine unless—”

  “Unless what?” the man snapped.

  Silence.

  Kael drank slowly, eyes lowered, filing it away.

  When work ended for the day, the ration square was already crowded. Guards ringed the distribution table, expressions bored but alert. The grain paste came out first, ladled into chipped bowls. Water followed.

  Protein did not.

  Murmurs spread.

  A guard struck the table with his baton. “Quiet.”

  The tallyman cleared his throat. “Protein allotments will be distributed tomorrow pending—”

  “Pending what?” someone shouted.

  The baton cracked again. This time, the man didn’t get up. You learned quickly that this was the only reward disobedience ever earned — or boredom from guards.

  Kael turned away before it went further. No good came from watching.

  They returned to the shelter as the lights dimmed, the tier settling into its nightly rhythm. Somewhere nearby, someone played a broken stringed instrument, the tune warped and mournful.

  Riven sat on his mat and stared at the wall.

  “People aren’t just moving,” he said finally.

  “No,” Kael agreed.

  “They’re disappearing.”

  “Yes.”

  Riven rubbed his hands together, restless. “We should ask around.”

  “We really shouldn’t,” Kael said. “You know what happens.”

  Riven exhaled. “Aren’t you at least a little curious? Worried?”

  Kael didn’t answer. The shelter felt smaller tonight, the press of bodies heavier. Too many empty spaces where people should have been.

  As he lay back down, Kael counted them.

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  More than yesterday.

  The city hadn’t rung a warning.

  It hadn’t announced a purge.

  It didn’t need to.

  People just kept disappearing — and everyone was too scared to look for them.