People began to stir, emerging from derelict houses into the early morning. As always, the sun was already high in the sky, casting a harsh, unwavering light on the streets. Leo held his sign, watching the crowds gather with a familiar boredom. More than half the people he saw were malnourished. The rest were merely skinny. Only the wealthiest merchants carried any fat on their bellies, a rare and conspicuous sign of prosperity. Despite the perpetual daylight, nearly everyone was pale-skinned, and many walked with the slow, shuffling gait of the exhausted, dark rings stark beneath their eyes. He could feel the anxiety radiating from them, a nervous energy that thickened the air. Leo knew this would be the most dangerous day of the month, a day when desperation boiled over. It was the day everyone in the Scraps dreaded. Still, he kept his sign held high and waited. Marcus, his mentor, had told him this was how he would find work as a Flux Conduit. He just had to be visible. Marcus was the powerful Conduit Leo had met two years ago, the one who had woken him with a sharp slap to the face. In the aftermath, they had gotten to know each other. Intrigued by the mysterious circumstances of Leo’s power, Marcus saw his potential and mentored him for several months. He had left about a year ago, promising that if Leo just made himself seen, someone looking for a Flux Conduit would eventually find him. That was why Leo sat here, day after day, in the marketplace with his sign. And so, while everyone else dreaded today, for Leo, it was no different from any other. Countless people passed by, many throwing evaluative glances his way, but no one approached him. Most of the passersby were skittish, their eyes darting nervously through the crowd. Others, however, moved with a calm confidence. All the calm ones wore a small pin on their chests: the image of two crossed spears. The pin marked them as clients of the Spearhead Collective, one of the most powerful crews running the Scraps from the shadows. The people wearing them weren't members, just ordinary citizens who had paid for protection from the day’s inevitable chaos. Suddenly, a fist flew. A blonde man crumpled to the ground as three others swarmed him. He curled into a tight ball, clutching something to his chest. His attackers rained blows down on him, careful not to break any bones. "Hand over your credits!" one of them snarled. The man on the ground didn't answer, his grip unshakable. Frustration twisted the attackers' faces. Killing was forbidden. Shedding blood was forbidden. The city wouldn't bat an eye at a few broken bones, but these men weren't psychopaths. If they crippled the man after taking his credits, they would be sentencing him to a slow death, and they knew it. One of the men grabbed a fistful of the victim's hair and yanked his head back, but still, he wouldn’t let go of his small fortune. Strands of blonde hair tore from his scalp, but his hands remained clenched. The other two attackers shot their friend an angry, desperate look. Taking a deep breath, the third man seized the victim’s head and slammed it into the pavement. The man went limp, unconscious. Miraculously, there was no blood. He was still alive. The move had been insanely risky; had he miscalculated, the city would have executed him for murder or for wasting precious blood. One of the assailants knelt and pried a small stack of paper notes from the unconscious man's grasp. He counted them quickly, then nodded to his friends. He handed the entire stack to one of them, who promptly burst into tears. The crying man hugged his two friends, bowing several times in gratitude. They clapped him on the back, assuring him it was nothing. He then scrambled away from the center of the marketplace and into the arms of a woman waiting by the side of the street. She was crying, too. A moment later, the man released her and knelt, beckoning. Two young girls, no older than eight, crept out from behind the woman and rushed to hug him. "I have enough for you," the man said, his voice trembling with relief. Only a few people had bothered to watch. Most were inured to such sights and didn't care. The rest of the crowd simply flowed around the body lying in the middle of the street, treating it as just another piece of rubble. Leo had seen the whole thing but made no move to intervene. There wasn't enough to go around. In the Scraps, it was every man for himself. As time wore on, more assaults broke out across the marketplace, but Leo just waited. Then, it was time. Around two o'clock, a hush fell over the crowd. The violence ceased. By now, the marketplace was packed shoulder-to-shoulder, but no one was buying or selling. They were all waiting for the same thing. Two minutes later, it began: the sound of a gigantic swarm of insects, growing louder and louder as it echoed from a nearby street. Eventually, five figures appeared, flanked by buzzing clouds of huge mosquitos. They wore the red uniforms of Crimson Sprawl, their affiliation clear. Each carried several large sacks, and their faces were hidden behind black gas masks. As the five city agents advanced, squadrons of mosquitos peeled off from the main swarm, darting into the houses they passed, searching for anyone trying to hide. After a moment, they would emerge and rejoin the swarm as others took their place, continuing the search. Suddenly, an entire cloud of them descended on a single house. A terrified scream erupted from within, quickly growing faint before being silenced completely. Seconds later, the mosquitos flew out again. Some soared high into the sky and departed, but their numbers were instantly replenished by new arrivals. After five minutes, the procession reached the entrance to the marketplace. The five figures stopped, saying nothing, their masked faces surveying the silent, waiting crowd.

Chapter 3: Dread in the Daylight