Chapter 1: Home Sweet Hell

Karma finally pushed himself off the ground, his body exhausted and trembling from the changes and injuries. His breath swirled toward the buzzing light above as he blew on his stinging hands, searching for even a ghost of warmth.

His fingers were bloodied and raw from clinging to the rock that let him fall anyway. The blood loss only deepened the chill. Every step across the cracked streets felt like dragging lead through ice.

He stumbled, catching himself on a wall as his breath rasped in and out like fire. Broken skyscrapers loomed above him — abandoned, yet still breathing with faint light and distant voices. He blinked, dizzy, refusing to collapse here of all places.

“Come on, Karma… keep moving…” he growled to himself, forcing his legs to obey. They buckled, dropping him to one knee. “Dammit…”

“You’re not looking too well, sir. Maybe find a fire and rest?” The transparent teenager from before hovered nearby, tone gentle.

“You’re not real.” Karma didn’t look at him. He couldn’t. Everything was already upside down; he wasn’t adding ghosts to the list. “I’m bleeding, freezing, and exhausted — you’re a hallucination.”

He braced on the wall, dragging himself upright again.

“I am real,” the boy said quietly. “I get it — there’s a lot going on. But please don’t act like I don’t exist. I don’t need the one person who’s seen me in centuries pretending I’m not here.”

Paxton sighed, running a hand through his brown hair — a very human gesture for someone who wasn’t supposed to be. Karma groaned, rubbing his face. “I’m going fucking insane… but fine. If you’re here now, help me find a place to go.”

The boy seemed to glow with enthusiasm. “On it, sir!” Then he vanished, leaving Karma alone in the biting air.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Karma pushed on, his sneakers scraping against fractured concrete until he spotted a faint orange glow ahead — a metal barrel fire surrounded by a few ragged figures. He sank down beside it on a broken chunk of rubble, unsure what it once belonged to.

He held his hands toward the flames. The heat hit his skin in waves, each one followed by the dull clang of the barrel expanding with the temperature.

For a moment, the world steadied. Then everything tilted. The light dimmed, the voices blurred, and Karma’s body hit the ground as the darkness took him.

—----------

When Karma’s eyes opened, he wasn’t sure where he was at first. Nothing was familiar. It smelled of an earthy soup, it was warmer than before, and there were actually walls. He winced as he sat up, noticing himself freshly bandaged. 

He spotted a woman sitting nearby on a broken stool. She looked middle-aged, with crow’s-feet around ruby eyes and fangs just peeking past her pale lips—vampire traits, clear proof of her own Rising.

“Finally awake, Kitten? Those injuries were pretty bad, but nothin’ unusual for a failed Risin’.”

Her voice was kind but roughened by years of smoke and survival.

Karma blinked, still groggy. “You helped me? Why?”

Suspicion edged his tone. No one in Dene helped strangers, and Hunloy was supposed to be worse. There had to be an angle.

The woman only laughed—a low, throaty sound that made his unease deepen rather than fade.

“Funny! Been nearly two decades since I’ve been topside — good to know they’re still missin’ their hearts! Look, kid, we take care of our own down here. You fell? Yer one of us now. Found ya passed out by the barrel south of here. Looked worse fer wear, so I brought you in. Figured you didn’t wanna die in the streets.”

Karma wasn’t sure how to respond. Part of him wanted to believe her, but his tails instinctively coiled tighter around his body. “You don’t know me.” The words came out flat — not a question, just a fact.

The woman’s grin widened, revealing her sharp teeth.

“Name’s Mira. And you are?”

“Karma.”

“Well now, Karma — guess we ain’t strangers anymore, are we?”

The warmth in her voice clashed with the chill still buried in his bones. For the first time since the fall, he wasn’t sure which to fear more — the cold outside, or the kindness inside.

“Why are you being so nice to me..?” he asked quietly.

Mira just shook her head. “Rather I’m nice and help ya, or cruel and let ya die in the cold?”

“...Nice.”

“Then shut yer trap and eat some soup, Kitten! No more complainin’.”

She used a beat-up wooden spoon to ladle some thin broth into a chipped bowl and shoved it into his hands before he could protest. The warmth of the bowl seeped into his frozen fingers; steam curled up to heat his face. His shoulders loosened despite himself, and a small sigh escaped him.

“Thank you..”

“Nothin’ to thank,” Mira said with a crooked smile. “Think of it as a ‘Welcome to Hunloy’ gift.”

“...Yeah. ‘Welcome to Hunloy.’”

Karma’s tone was low as he finally started to process what had happened to him. He ran a thumb over the chipped edge of the bowl, eyes unfocused on the thin broth inside. “That really happened, huh? I’m not crazy?”

Mira’s eyes softened with understanding as her smile fell. “’Fraid not. Though if you ask around, you’ll learn just about everyone’s mad down here. Comes with the territory.”

She winked, leaning closer to check his temperature with the back of her hand.

“Not runnin’ a fever. That’s good.”

Karma flinched at the contact, startled by the sudden gesture. Mira gave a small, knowing scoff.

“Relax, Kitten. Ain’t gonna bite.”

For the first time, Karma caught the faint scent of iron on her breath — not fresh blood, but something old, metallic, and lived-in. Somehow, it made her seem more real than anything else since the fall.

“You can’t say you don’t bite and smell like blood when you’re a vampire…” he muttered.

Mira let out a hearty laugh, slapping her knee. “No, I s’pose not! Don’t worry, kid. After my Rising, sure, I need blood — but Hunloy’s got regular blood drives for residents with vampire or other… appetites.”

She leaned back, studying him with a curious tilt of her head. “You though? Never seen a Neko Mata in my lifetime. Especially not one who’s also a Maneki Neko. That’s extremely rare.”

Karma blinked. “Maneki Neko…? Neko Mata..? What?”

Mira’s expression softened, the corners of her smile turning wistful. “Poor kid,” she said quietly. “Don’t even know what you are.”

Karma took an absent sip of his soup as he processed her words—then flinched when the hot broth hit the wound in his tongue.

“Ah, damn—”

Mira didn’t hesitate. She leaned forward and caught his chin in her hand, turning his face toward the light with a sharp tsk.

Karma tried to pull back, but her grip was surprisingly strong. His ears flattened, tails flicking behind him in protest.

“Bit clean through,” she muttered, inspecting the damage. “Not unusual for those who grow fangs after a Rising. Got just the thing—hold on.”

She released him and rummaged through a small pile of dried herbs on a nearby shelf. Karma rubbed his jaw, scowling, but didn’t stop her. When she finally found what she wanted, she crushed the herbs between her palms, mixing in a drop of water until it became a dull green paste.

“Here,” she said, pressing the small lump into his free hand. “Spread some on your tongue. It’ll numb it long enough to eat.”

“...I can deal,” Karma muttered, though his voice softened. “Just—give me a warning next time you plan on invading my personal space.”

Mira smirked. “You complain more than my last patient.”

“I’m also still waiting to hear what you meant by ‘Neko Mata’ and ‘Maneki Neko.’”

“Ah,” Mira said, leaning back with a knowing look. “Now that’s a story.”

Karma grumbled as he spread the paste over his tongue, blinking when it went numb almost instantly. “What kind of story?” The words came out thick and slurred, the numbness making it hard to talk.

Mira chuckled, her easy smile returning. “See, most symbols or myths are common — vampires, werewolves, ghouls, banshees, demons. We know what to do with those; got records, got groups, got examples. Our abilities aren’t mysteries because we’ve still got the Old World to guide us. But you, Kitten…” She pointed at him with the spoon. “The Rising left you with an extremely rare mix of myths.”

“The Maneki Neko — or Lucky Cat — was a charm used in shops and homes to draw in good fortune. You’d see ’em waving, usually in gold or red. But the calico ones…” She tilted her head, flashing a fangy grin. “Those were special. Male calicos are genetic flukes, so they were seen as extra lucky — living good-omen. Normally, that’d land you a hero’s seat topside.”

Her gaze flicked to his twin tails, and her tone deepened with intrigue. “But your tail split — formed two. That’s where the second myth comes in.”

She set the spoon down, voice lowering like a campfire storyteller’s. “The Neko Mata. Forked-tail cat. The Old World said when a cat’s tail split, it turned into a vengeful spirit. It could summon fire and raise the dead. Villages feared ’em, worshipped ’em, depended on ’em — all at once.”

Karma’s shoulders sank. He stared into his bowl like it might answer for him. “So I was marked a Villain for a myth I didn’t even know about? One I never asked for? I’ve never hurt anyone.” His voice cracked, rough with disbelief.

Mira sighed softly. “Unfortunately, yeah. Happens to the best of us, Kid.”

She leaned forward, catching his eyes with quiet conviction. “But the Neko Mata wasn’t all evil. Some stories said they were guardians — wise, protective, even revered. Despite what they told ya, you ain’t the myth. The Rising gave you traits, not destiny. Remember that.”

“Traits, not destiny, huh?” Karma muttered. “My parents always said the pills reveal your true nature. Guess they were wrong.” He gave a bitter laugh. “But I think they still believe it… so I’m outta luck, then.”

Silence lingered. He traced the chipped rim of the bowl with his thumb, then tipped it back and drank while his tongue was still numb — as if he could drown his thoughts in the salty broth.

Mira gave him a look of quiet understanding but didn’t push. When she finally spoke, her tone was lighter.

“Guessin’ you need a place to stay? Block Nine’s nice and quiet — mostly families or elders.”

“Point out the direction and I’ll follow.”

Mira laughed, the sound echoing through the small space. “Kitten, you’re already there! Top floor’s empty — bit of a fixer-upper if you want privacy. Otherwise, someone might—”

“Privacy.”

She grinned. “Then that’s settled! Top floor’s yours, Kid. Don’t mind the leaks or the drafts — just adds character.”

Karma let out a low hum that might’ve been gratitude. Mira only smiled, turning back to the simmering pot on the stove, humming softly to herself.

“Where are the stairs? And the bathroom, for that matter?” he asked, voice low but steadying.

“Stairs are outside the door, hang a right,” Mira said, glancing over her shoulder. “Bathroom’s communal — one in each building. Ours is on the fifth floor. The place I’m givin’ you is up top — twelve flights.” She smirked. “Most don’t wanna make that climb, so it’s been vacant a long while.”

She turned back around and shoved a bundle of tattered blankets into his arms. “Temp’s a mess up there. Drafts bring the cold, but heat rises too. You’ll need these.”

Karma caught them awkwardly, the worn fabric heavier than it looked. He stared at them for a moment — then at Mira — unsure how to say thank you again without sounding like he’d break.

“Once a week, Block Nine does community chores,” Mira continued. “Keeps the place livable. You’ll be expected to pull yer weight. Crop rotation for our block’s tomorrow, but you’re not in Eros’ system yet, so you get a free pass for the day.”

She smirked. “Means you get to help with the youngins while the others are out.”

Karma groaned. “...I’ll help if it means I have a place to stay. Just wish there was less effort required so I could nap my life away.”

Mira barked a laugh. “Kid, if nappin’ fixed anything down here, we’d all be saints by now. You’ll do fine — just do some honest work and you’ll fit right in.”

“That’s the problem,” Karma muttered, shifting the blankets in his arms. “I’m allergic to anything that requires effort.”

Mira grinned, flashing those fangs again. “Ain’t we all, Kitten. Ain’t we all.”

Karma didn’t respond. He just waved a tail in lazy farewell and began the long trek upward.

Though wrapped in bandages, every movement still sent dull pain through his limbs. He climbed slowly, stopping on each landing to brace against the wall and catch his breath. The building felt alive around him — the creak of pipes, faint chatter through thin walls, the scent of life and metal mixed together.

On every floor he paused to look around. Narrow hallways stretched on with mismatched doors, cracked plaster, and leaking pipes that left thin streams running along the floor. Yet despite the decay, there was warmth. He heard children laughing, adults talking, pans clattering, and the sound of bread being pulled from an oven. The air carried faint citrus — lemons used for cleaning — a brightness that cut through the damp. Through open doors, he glimpsed families huddled together: two, sometimes three, sharing a single space but making it theirs.

By the time he reached the fifth floor, his legs ached and his breath came in short bursts. He decided to find the bathroom before continuing. As he made his way down the narrow hall, a few residents glanced up from their doorways.

“Oi, newbie! Welcome!”
“Look who’s finally awake!”
“Mira find you a place already?”

Karma didn’t have the energy to answer, but his ears twitched and his tails flicked in acknowledgment. That seemed enough for them; the voices returned to laughter and chatter.

He finally found the bathroom — a wide communal space with a row of shower stalls and a few worn tubs. Steam clung to the air, and puddles glimmered on the cracked tile, proof someone had just finished. The scent of soap and rust mingled in the humidity.

Setting his things down on the sink — first the blankets, then his clothes, then the bandages — Karma stepped into one of the showers. The water hit ice-cold, pulling a sharp gasp from his throat as it ran over his skin, streaking away blood, grime, and the last remnants of his fall.

For a long moment, he just stood there under the stream, letting it wash the day — and the label of Villain — down the drain.

“Note to self… get thicker clothes,” he muttered when the water finally warmed enough to take the bite off.

He braced a hand against the wall, watching the diluted red swirl beneath his feet. His gaze drifted to his damaged fingertips, the bandage lines, the bruises — each a reminder of the ceremony he couldn’t stop replaying.

The bright lights. The roaring crowd. The bettor’s board flickering odds beside his name. The judgment.

Even the drones — circling close, lenses glinting like eyes — catching every moment of his fall while no one cared whether he survived it.

His chest tightened. He thought of his parents — the silence that must’ve filled their home when his name appeared on the Villain board. He could almost see their expressions sink from pride, to pity, to quiet disappointment.

A bitter sigh escaped him.

“Praised when golden, dropped when tarnished… typical.”

The words echoed off the cracked tile, swallowed by the steady hiss of water.

When he was done, he turned the water off and stood there a moment, head bowed, droplets tracing down his arms. Then he moved to the mirror, using a tattered blanket to dry himself.

He met his own gaze for the first time that day — long black cat ears, whiskers fading off his cheeks, fangs that just poked out beneath his lip. Two white tails trailed behind him, streaked with black and orange. His blue eyes caught the dim light, pupils slit like a predator’s.

“Despite everything… cat traits fit you, Graves,” he muttered, voice barely above a breath.

“I agree.”

Karma jumped, tails puffing out, ears pinned flat. “Where the fuck did you come from?!” He spun toward the voice, glaring at the ghost boy.

Paxton tilted his head, looking genuinely confused. “Where did I come from? How about where you went, sir? I found a nice tarp for ya, came back, and you were gone.” He looked around the small room and lifted a brow. “Guess you found something better than a tarp, though.”

“Got catnapped by a vampire, fed soup, and given a place to stay.” Karma exhaled, finally letting his fur settle. “I’m officially the new resident stray.”

He grabbed his boxers and pants, tugging them on, avoiding his sweater for now. As he began rewrapping the bandages across his ribs, he said, “In any case, we were given the top floor…”

“We, sir?”

“Yeah. Figured you’d stick around.” Karma shot him a lazy, exhausted smirk.

Paxton blinked, incredulous. “Just hours ago you called me a hallucination and told me to leave you alone.”

Karma rubbed the back of his neck, finally pulling his sweater over his head. “Yeah, well… if I’m hallucinating, at least I’ve got company.” He sighed, the faintest hint of a grin tugging at his lip. “I’ll deal with the crazy later.”

———

Karma and Paxton made their way up the narrow stairwell toward the top floor. The higher they climbed, the quieter the world became. The laughter and clatter from the lower levels faded, replaced by the echo of their footsteps and the occasional groan of old metal.

Curiosity eventually got the better of Karma. “What’s your story, Pax? If I’m living with a ghost teenager, I’d rather know who I’m dealing with.”

Paxton tilted his head, expression distant. “I don’t know.”

Karma frowned. “You don’t know?”

“Nope.” The boy’s tone was casual, but there was something heavy beneath it. “I only know I lived before the cities split — and I died during a Rising.”

Karma slowed a step. “Died during a Rising? You’re only fourteen.”

“Yes, I know.” Paxton’s translucent form flickered faintly as he spoke. “They used to do Risings at younger ages. But the death toll was too high. I was long gone before they raised it to twenty. More people survived that way.”

Karma exhaled slowly, studying him in silence for a moment. “So… a Rising killed you. Guess that makes two of us who got screwed over by the system.”

Paxton gave a faint, rueful smile. “Yeah. Difference is, you still got a heartbeat.”

Karma didn’t respond. He just kept climbing, the sound of their steps fading into the hum of the upper floors.

When they finally reached the top, Karma paused before the door. It was little more than a slab of scrap wood fashioned into a makeshift entrance—barely secure, but handled with enough care to suggest someone once called this place home.

Inside, the room was small enough to take in with a single glance. Cracked walls, warped floorboards, a slow leak dripping into a bucket, a missing windowpane. A cot sat by the window, a curtained doorway hinted at a balcony, and a tiny wood-burning stove crouched in the corner—the last traces of a life long gone.

He moved through the space, noting how the temperature shifted from cold to warm pockets. The cot sat in the warmest one. “Guy knew what he was doing,” Karma muttered, dragging the stove a little closer before sitting down.

He flicked his lighter. Once. Twice.

Flick. Flick. Flick.

Woosh.

A thin flame sputtered to life, but the wood refused to catch. “Figures…” Karma sighed. Then he remembered the blue fire from earlier. Closing his eyes, he searched for that pulse inside him, that same surge from before, and snapped his fingers.

At first—nothing. Then, fwoom. The stove flared to life in soft blue fire, light dancing across the cracked walls like ghostly water. For the first time, the space looked alive.

Almost on cue, the artificial sun outside blinked out. Darkness swallowed Hunloy. Karma’s eyes adjusted, his new night vision shifting the world into faint hues of blue and silver.

He stepped onto the balcony, the cold air biting his skin. Pulling a cigarette from the half-crushed pack in his pocket, he lit it with a flick of the same blue flame. The glow reflected faintly in his eyes as he looked out over Hunloy—families huddled around barrel fires, guards snuffing them out with batons and orders that didn’t make sense to anyone but themselves.

“...Guess I better make do.”
He took a slow drag, exhaling smoke into the dark. “Happy home sweet hell, Karma.”

Below, the city rumbled on. Above, the blue fire burned steady.