Chapter 1

• Blood kept pouring from the wound—hot, insistent, and impossible to ignore now. Twenty minutes ago, he’d tried. Pretended it wasn’t that bad. But the pain had sharpened, spreading like fire beneath his skin.
• He came to a halt, breath ragged in his throat, and suddenly—his legs gave out. His body dropped, slumping against the dirt.
• The fight had drained everything from him.
• “Shit,” he hissed, staring down at his hand, slick with fresh blood.
• Then the sound hit.
• Shrill. Deafening. Like a scream from the sky itself.
• It tore through the air, loud enough to rupture eardrums. A sound that made even the bravest turn and run. He glanced upward, heart hammering, shifting just enough to blend deeper into the shadows. Above him, a hovering machine sliced through the sky—its lights blinding, its frame encircled by weapons.
• And he knew—once it locked onto movement, it fired. No warning. No mercy. Just searing bullets raining down from the heavens.
• There was no time to weigh options. No chance to be careful.
• He bolted into the Drowned Forest.
• It was suicide. Everyone knew that. But so was standing still.
• And yet, he ran—not because he didn’t value his life, but because his mission meant more.
• Escape was the only thing that mattered.
• He gambled everything—on a universe that, today, seemed hell-bent on destroying him. Hoping that maybe, just maybe, tomorrow will be kinder.
• And then—Silence.
• Peace, for a moment. Like the echo of a promise.
• Just as it was meant to be.
• For the Last Horratio.
• ****
• Every morning felt like getting slammed in the head with a sledgehammer. Gala’s skull throbbed, the pounding never quite went away, and his legs always felt like they didn’t belong to him. He moved sluggishly, as if the floor itself wanted to pull him down.
• And often, it did.
• The torn, musty old rug—frayed at the edges and reeking of mold—never failed to trip him up. Over and over, he found himself face-first on the cold, dusty floor. It had become a routine. A miserable one.
• It happened almost every day.
• At this point, Gala had no idea what was wrong with him. Was he cursed? Clumsy? Just the dumbest person alive?
• He’d sit there on the floor, cross-legged, groaning as he rubbed his aching forehead, muttering complaints that no one would ever hear. Just him and his pathetic luck.
• Maybe he was born this way—awkward and accident-prone. Or maybe life had just decided to treat him like a cosmic joke. Either way, he didn’t get it.
• “At this rate, I’m gonna lose all my teeth,” he muttered, running a finger along his split lip.
• Another bruise. Another busted spot on his forehead from yet another rough kiss with the floor.
• His eyes flicked toward the wall clock—a worn-out, off-white relic that still clung to the hook like it had something to prove. If it could complain, Gala imagined it would beg to be thrown out.
• The ticking sounded like labored breathing, like someone on their deathbed gasping for air. But he still relied on it. Maybe this month he’ll finally have enough to buy a new one. Something slightly better from the secondhand stall in Border Market—just past the city’s edge.
• That place sold everything salvaged and semi-functioning at half the price of anything new. Gala always dreamed of buying quality, long-lasting goods. But dreams were expensive.
• Right now, he was just thankful if life didn’t kick him harder than it already had.
• No use complaining.
• No one was going to help him. If anything, misfortune only grew louder when he did. People mocked him, pushed him further into the shadows, where no one had to see him.
• With a frustrated sigh, Gala glanced at the clock again.
• The long hand had passed the six.
• He was late. Again.
• Of course. Of course, he had the morning shift—always the morning shift. The one he dreaded. The one that turned him into a living joke.
• And he was tired of being the joke.
• He pushed himself to his feet with a groan, stumbling slightly as he kicked aside the clutter around him. Old junk from last night’s mess, forgotten wrappers, a cracked mug. Then he grabbed his uniform—faded and thin from too many washes.
• Every time he wore it, Mr. Kim made sure to say something nasty.
• That pig-faced man with flushed, bloated cheeks never missed an opportunity to humiliate him.
• “You’re kitchen staff. Why the hell do you need a nice uniform? You spend more time with garbage bags than people. Uniforms are expensive. If it looks like shit, that’s your fault.”
• So Gala stopped arguing.
• What was the point?
• Two years surrounded by restaurant waste, scrubbing grease, and hauling trash for a fast-food joint that would never promote him. Not to a cook. Not even to a waiter. Something with a shred of dignity.
• Never.
• Gala couldn’t afford to hope—let alone ask. He was lucky he even had a job. Without it, he’d just be another freeloader, a burden his neighbors pitied from behind closed doors.
• He didn’t waste time sulking. Instead, he braced himself for the nightmare that was his bathroom.
• A crumbling excuse of space, barely holding itself together. He’d filed complaint after complaint with the flat’s landlady, Mrs. Milly, but nothing ever changed.
• Broken tiles. Leaking pipes. Mold creeping up the corners like a second skin.
• Just another piece of life he couldn’t fix. Not yet.
• Mrs. Milly had been breathing down Gala’s neck lately—relentlessly pressing him to pay off the mounting rent debt left behind from when he still lived with his mother. And the worst part? His mother had vanished without so much as a coin to her name, leaving Gala nothing but a pile of unpaid bills.
• Nearly every paycheck he earned disappeared the moment it came in—swallowed whole by overdue rent and the long line of creditors who showed up out of nowhere, each one waving some mysterious debt his mother had owed.
• Some days, it felt like he was on the edge of losing his mind.
• But complaining? Useless. No one was listening.
• And so here he was again, standing in the doorway, giving his pale cheeks a few firm slaps in a sad attempt to wake himself up. His skin had always been unusually fairer than his mother’s, which only deepened the mystery of his origins. It looked more like the tone typical of people from West Metro, though he had no idea why.
• Just another reason to be sneered at. Another reason to stand out in all the wrong ways.
• The stares, the whispers, they only grew louder as the years passed. Now, at twenty-five, he was still the outcast. Still the odd one out.
• Pathetic.
• If he could’ve traded his name for a better life, he would’ve done it in a heartbeat. Galaksi Haidar—the name his mother had given him, one that people often said sounded powerful, even fated.
• But he didn’t feel powerful. He felt cursed.
• Maybe that was the “greatness” people spoke of—the sheer magnitude of bad luck that followed him around like a shadow. That made sense.
• Even his broad shoulders and strong frame weren’t enough to fend off the endless misfortune life kept hurling at him. All he could do was pray that the “bad luck” he’d practically adopted as a surname—Galaksi Haidar the Unlucky—would ease up just enough for him to keep going.
• That was all he hoped for.
• He rushed out the door, chewing on yesterday’s leftover bread—two bites in, stale around the edges. A half-carton of milk that had been in the fridge for... who even knew how long? No time to warm it up, let alone pour it properly. His food stash would barely last until tonight.
• Hopefully, Mr. Kim will pay him today—however meager the paycheck was.
• Gala wanted to snap, to storm out, to yell at the unfairness of it all. But he couldn’t.
• His life depended on Mr. Kim’s restaurant. In South Metro, who else would feed him lunch and let him bring home dinner when they were in a generous mood?
• Yes, Mr. Kim was a brute—never spoke without barking, always red-faced with frustration whenever Gala was around. Maybe it was Gala’s constant clumsiness that set him off.
• Still… Mr. Kim wasn’t heartless.
• He let Gala eat. Let him pack leftovers at night. It wasn’t gourmet by any means, but it filled his stomach and kept his body strong. And sometimes, that was more than enough.
• So if the red-faced man wanted to curse at him? Fine. Gala could take it—just as long as his stomach didn’t have to stay empty.
• “Morning, Gala,” a voice called from the stairwell.
• Mr. Richard stood at the landing, arms full of grocery bags. Middle-aged, kind faced.
• “Morning,” Gala replied quickly, barely slowing his pace. “Sorry—I’m running late.”
• “Late again?” Richard asked with a raised brow.
• Gala just shrugged.
• He couldn’t tell if it was a genuine question or a quiet jab. Either way, he was used to hearing it. Almost every day, someone says the same thing.
• And sure enough, the next line followed right on cue.
• “Have you eaten? You look paler than usual.”
• Of course Gala hadn’t forgotten Mr. Richard always asked that question. As if it were the only one, he knew.
• Some of the other tenants in the building liked to speculate. Maybe Mr. Richard had taken a special liking to Gala, they whispered. But that wasn’t it. Every time Gala was forced to slow down and spare the man a moment, there was always something to hear. Usually something he didn’t want to hear.
• Especially when it came to his mother.
• “Help me clean out the storage room the day after tomorrow,” the man said, tone flat and expectant.
• Gala glanced back quickly, already halfway to the door. He lived in a cramped flat surrounded by equally tight quarters—neighbors who probably shared the same broken wallets and fragile pride. Still, Gala always felt like he was at the very bottom of it all.
• Mr. Richard was a retired banker. Not that it meant much now—his pension barely kept him afloat. Whatever scraps were left went straight to his good-for-nothing son. And yet, the old man still loved that idiot more than anything.
• If Gala’s parents had shown him even half that affection, he would’ve paid them back tenfold. But they hadn’t. All he had now was Mr. Richard’s stories—rambling, ridiculous ones that made Gala question why he ever stopped to listen.
• “There’ll be pay in it for you, Gala. Don’t worry.”
• Gala sighed inwardly.
• Do I really look that desperate? Is it written all over my face?
• But the few crumpled bills and spare coins Mr. Richard gave him would help cover part of the rent. Every bit counted. Especially when Mrs. Milly came knocking.
• “Alright, Mr. Richard. I’ll help after work,” he replied quickly, careful not to sound too eager—even though his eyes had lit up like morning sun.
• He didn’t wait for another word.
• He stepped out the door and let it shut behind him, heading down the narrow side of the building where his battered old bike waited—his only real possession of value.
• He exhaled long and deep, trying to steady himself for the day ahead.
• “Come on, Gala,” he muttered under his breath. Today’s gonna be a long one.