The group didn't stop running until they reached the end of 35th Street. Cold stone roads were left behind, replaced by wet and muddy ground. A sickening, pungent stench assaulted their noses as they moved forward.
They saw a wide river of black water flowing slowly, its greasy surface reflecting the moonlight. As they got closer, the stench grew unbearable.
The group finally stopped. Everyone took ragged breaths. They wanted to sit and rest, but neither their surroundings nor their circumstances allowed it.
"That's it…" Mathew said between labored breaths. He gently lowered Leon to the ground, his arms trembling from exertion. "Blackwater River."
Leon stared at the river. The name made sense now. This wasn't water; this was waste. It reeked of rot, chemicals, and things that shouldn't be touched.
"That's where we're going?" Roan asked, his voice barely above a whisper. He pointed toward the river.
"No. We will follow the river upstream. By dawn, we'll reach the Workers' Quarters."
Leon quietly followed the others as they walked along the river's edge. Everyone was exhausted from running all night, but rest wasn't an option until they were out of the Lower Town sector.
Time slowly passed. No one was in the mood for talking. Leon didn't know why, but no one questioned him—what he had done or what had actually happened—and Leon appreciated that. He wasn't in the mindset to explain, either.
The sun slowly rose on the horizon. Leon saw rows of similar-looking buildings standing further ahead like a wall. They stretched from the edge of the river far into the distance.
As they crossed into the Workers' Quarters, it seemed as if the whole world had changed. The rotten smell of the river slowly blended with smoke emanating from distant chimneys, making the air feel heavy. Leon felt a suffocating weight in his chest every time he breathed.
On both sides of the road, buildings were cramped so tightly that barely any sunlight reached the ground. The roads were wet and muddy, but not from clay—it was ash that had been constantly raining down. Leon left a footprint in the soaked road and watched as black water filled it in seconds.
The streets were bustling even in the early morning. They passed by rows of shacks and communal halls where workers sat slumped on doorsteps, still in their threadbare work clothes. Their faces were pale and leathery, lined with grime and dust. Some stared with hollow eyes; others didn't even bother to look up. Hands like cracked leather rested on knees, holding rusted tools or empty cups.
The suffocating feeling in Leon's chest only grew. He saw a woman cough up blood, wipe her mouth with the back of her hand, and continue wringing clothes in brown water. Above them, lines stretched from building to building, where old rags—passed down as clothes—hung, still dripping.
Everyone walked with solemn faces. Leon could guess what they were thinking.
Is this the freedom Jack spoke of?
Mathew looked around, scanning every face as if searching for someone or something. After spotting a small cafe named "Morning Coffee," Mathew came to a halt.
"Wait here."
With that, he walked into the cafe. It was crowded, as workers lined up for their morning coffee. Leon had seen this scene before. He remembered photographs from a documentary describing the harsh living conditions of workers in Europe during early industrialization.
Lisa, once an energetic young lady, looked at her surroundings with bleak expressions. She saw children her age walking past her. They wore the same clothes as the workers and had the same hollow eyes and tired faces. Although no one here was bossing them around or abusing them, it felt no different than the Cradle.
"Is this how we are going to live from now on?" she asked.
Leon replied with an encouraging smile. "Not for long."
"Exactly."
The group turned when they heard Mathew's voice. He continued, "Once we gather enough money, we won't be staying here either."
"This is Tom, Jack's friend and our contact," Mathew introduced a man in the same grey-colored worker's clothes. He had dirty blond hair and brown eyes.
Tom looked at the group with a wide smile. "Welcome, and congrats—you made it." He crouched down in front of Leon and tousled his white hair. "You must be Leon. You remind me of Jack."
"Anyway, there's an old factory dormitory at the end of this block. I already talked things over with the manager. It's a one-room kitchen for ten copers a month. I know the manager, so there's no need for a deposit," Tom said as he led the way.
The dormitory stood at the very end of the block, half-hidden behind a stack of rusting barrels and broken crates. Compared to the already rotting buildings around it, this one looked like it had been forgotten by time itself.
Its bricks were the color of dried blood, faded and cracked. Patches of mold crept like veins along the walls. A portion of the roof sagged in the middle, as if the building was too tired to keep standing. Rotten wooden planks covered windows where glass should have been, and the door hung from a single hinge, creaking with every gust of wind.
The smell here was worse. Not the sharp sting of the river or the greasy smoke from chimneys—this was a stale, trapped stench. Like mildew, piss, and wet clothes that had never truly dried.
Leon looked around. Even in the Workers' Quarters, where everything was soaked in filth and hardship, this place stood out. This was where the ones with no options came to rot.
A crooked sign above the door read "Dormitory 6"—though half the letters had faded away, leaving just "D__mit__y".
"This is it," Tom said, like he was announcing something worth celebrating. "Not pretty, I know… but it's cheap, and it's safe. Mostly."
Leon didn't reply. His eyes lingered on the cracks that ran across the building.
When they entered, they saw an empty hall and stairs on both sides leading to upper floors.
When they reached the third floor, Tom stood behind a half-broken door. It opened on its own with just a touch. The broken handle clung to the wooden frame from a single rusty nail.
As Leon and the others entered the room, a smile crept up on everyone's faces. No matter how old this apartment looked, it was still far better than the Cradle. It had furniture—a kitchen table, a few chairs, and an old bed frame.
Tom hung around for a bit before leaving. It was time for his work shift. As soon as he left, Mathew gathered everyone.
"It feels so unreal, to be free," Bear said as he laid down on the floor.
"Yeah, it feels nice. No constant fear of Dan, no restrictions. But I still don't understand what freedom is. I mean, it was bad back in the Cradle, but it wasn't that bad," Mira said, looking down.
Mathew frowned. "Not bad? You mean getting beaten up to death almost daily is not bad?! If it weren't for Jack sacrificing himself, Roan and Leon wouldn't even be alive right now. And it wasn't bad? How long did you think that dirt you smeared on your face would keep you protected? In a few years, you and Lisa would've been sold as slaves and objects."
His voice was quiet, but sharp.
"I didn't mean it like that… it's just… I'm scared of what comes next… the uncertain future," Mira mumbled with her head down.
Mathew took a deep breath and sighed.
"Our future isn't uncertain. We'll find jobs and gather money. We'll gather enough to live like the rich ladies and gentlemen we begged from. That's our future, Mira," he said, then turned to Bear.
"I already talked with Tom. He said he can arrange jobs for me and Bear. From now on, we won't spread our hands in front of anyone. We stand on our own feet."
"What about us? You surely don't expect me to sit back and do nothing, right?" Lisa interjected, putting a hand on Mira's shoulder.
"Exactly," Mira said, looking up.