Nights in the slums were especially long. Because in the filth, the cold, the stench of refuse, one had to endure by any means necessary just to see the morning without dying. Anything could happen in the night and it would not be strange. He did not know who his parents were. Someone who had lived in the slums for a long time had said that some woman had abandoned a baby that had not yet been weaned. In a back alley where there was not enough food for one’s own mouth, no one had any attention to spare for an abandoned baby. It was sheer luck that a moneylender in his middle years found the baby on the verge of starving to death. The moneylender took the baby in and fed and cared for it in a rough fashion. It happened to be a boy, and it had not been abandoned long, so the plan was to sell it off once it was grown. The intent behind taking the child in was not pure, but that intent saved the baby. The child, cared for only just enough not to die, grew up without frequent illness, fortunately. The moneylender who owned him hated him coming up from underground in the extreme.

“Tch. Do not think about coming up. That is your place down there.”

Bang! The basement door slammed shut hard above his head. A filthy underground storage room piled full of all manner of boxes was the baby’s room, but having grown up there his entire life, he had thought it only natural. The baby grew little by little, listening to the noise from the floor above that the walls did nothing to muffle. One day, the meals that had been brought every two or three days stopped entirely. Since thinking about going upstairs was absolutely forbidden, the child simply endured and waited.

‘…Hungry.’

But he was so hungry. It felt like his stomach would split, and his whole body ached. He had once heard someone upstairs say ‘I am so hungry I could die,’ and was this what that meant? In the end the child could not bear it any longer and opened the basement door himself and came up. It was the first time. The first time he had defied his owner’s orders and come up. Someone who spotted the child stumbling through the unfamiliar house let out a scream.

“Eeek!”

“What is this filthy thing?!”

They recoiled in horror, as if they had found a rat in the kitchen. And no wonder, because the child who had appeared out of nowhere looked truly dreadful. His entire body was so dirty it made one wonder if he had ever been washed since birth, and a foul smell came off him, and whatever he had been eating his body was all skin and bones and pitiful to look at. Three years old? Four? A woman who had been studying the child carefully suddenly recalled the memory of the owner bringing home a newborn baby some three or four years ago.

“This must be the child the master took in. Goodness, just look at the state of him.”

“What should we do?”

“What is there to do, the master is dead. Who is going to look after that child?”

That was right. A few days ago, the moneylender had died, and there was no longer anyone to bring the child his meals.

“He said he would sell him for a high price once he was grown, but who would buy that?”

He felt sharp eyes scanning him up and down. The child met that gaze head on. The old woman who had been staring into his blue eyes let out a sigh and waved her hand dismissively.

“Hey. There is nothing for you here, so get out.”

Even at the words telling him to leave, the child stood his ground and did not move. He was hungry. He had never spoken with anyone other than his owner, so making his voice work was difficult.

“I, I am hun…”

“Goodness. Here! Take these and go!”

With two hard rolls clutched to his chest, the child was thrown out. Was it fortunate or unfortunate that the moneylender had died before he was fully grown. The fortunate part was that he would not be sold off. The unfortunate part was that he no longer had anywhere to be. The child, barely four years old, returned to the streets of the slums. He had come up from a basement storage room of barely two square meters to the surface where he could go anywhere, but the boy’s world was still narrow. The back alleys where no sunlight reached were no different from the basement. If anything, he had to do whatever it took to fill his stomach. Because there was no one here to occasionally bring him meals. The child adapted quickly to back alley life in order to survive. In the slums, anyone who approached had to be treated as an enemy without exception. It was a world where someone might put an arm around your shoulder like a friend one moment and drive a knife into your back the next without a second thought. About a year later, he had become enough of a back alley regular to at least feed himself. Another year passed after that. He had taken a job that went wrong and gotten caught up in a pointless affair, and was beaten mercilessly by a hired mercenary. Staggering toward the shantytown that barely passed for a home, the boy collapsed.

‘Ugh, how was I supposed to know that pig of a man would go after a married woman…’

It was night, of all times. The slum night where anything could happen and it would not be strange. To make things worse, a fierce rain began to pour down. If he died, no one would care. All he had was a scrawny body.

‘No. I cannot die like this.’

He was doing everything he could to keep his flickering eyes open and hold onto his fading consciousness when. Footstep, footstep. Someone’s steps stopped in front of the boy.

“Are you all right?”

A woman’s voice. The kindest and most beautiful voice he had ever heard in his life. Not the kind of voice that should be heard in a place like this. Because the fate of most young women here was always the same. The boy, head still hanging low, answered with a sneer.

“…Do I look all right?”

Ptoo. He spat out a mouthful of blood-mixed saliva and it splattered on the toe of the other person’s shoe. He expected a kick to come flying, but it did not. The sharp drops of rain that had been driving onto the top of his head were no longer there. Puzzled, the boy raised his head and met a pair of soft pink eyes.

“I came looking for someone.”

“…?”

Wow. What the, d*mn, is she an angel? All manner of crude words tumbled out. He could not believe someone this beautiful existed in the world. Long golden hair falling neatly framed his entire field of vision. And on top of that, this woman was holding an umbrella over him. Even as her own shoulder was getting soaked.

The woman asked the stunned boy.

“Would you help me find someone?”

“Is this a job?”

“Yes. A job.”

This woman had absolutely no eye for people. Of all the people to hire, she had to pick someone half dead. She was clearly not from the slums, a face he had never seen before. From the looks of it, she had never set foot in the back alleys before, and if she ran into the wrong person she could end up in a very bad situation.

‘If she got caught by some other guy…’

The boy thought of the countless incidents that had taken place here and looked straight up at the woman.

“The fee is 500 larit.”

A job to find someone usually ran fifty larit at most, but he was in a contrary mood and quoted ten times that. He wanted to see just how naive and foolish she was. But the moment the words were out he caught himself. What if she thought he was trying to swindle her and just left? But that did not happen.

“All right.”

The woman nodded far too readily.

“No, wait. The fee-.”

He tried to correct the fee in a hurry, but the woman was faster. She smiled brightly and held out her hand to him.

“It is hard to talk here, so would you like to come to my place?”

“What?”

“No? Would that be uncomfortable?”

The woman hesitated and asked carefully. The boy was thrown off. It was simply that no one had ever reached out a hand to him first before. And of course it was because of the job, but no one had ever invited him to their home either. The boy looked down at his own hand. It was filthy. Nails long from not being properly cleaned, dried black mud caked here and there. Against that, the woman’s hand was so white and slender and pretty. When the boy just stared without taking her hand, the woman spoke again.

“You have a lovely hair color.”

“…What are you talking about?”

Even the boy himself had forgotten what his natural hair color was. Covered in dirty dust, his original color did not show through and it only looked brown. Was she calling this dull brown lovely? Most people in the slums looked this grimy. But the thought did not get far. The woman had already grabbed the boy’s hand and pulled him to his feet.

“W, wait!”

“There will be a storm tonight. Let us get home before it hits.”

The rain was heavy, but how did she know it would be a storm? The boy found it absurd, but he walked with his hand in hers. Every time one of the places he had been hit throbbed, the woman looked down at him.

“Are you really all right?”

“…I am fine!”

He was not fine, but he forced himself to keep walking by sheer will. Showing weakness here was the same as asking to be killed. The boy learned one remarkable thing today. That people were surprisingly strong-willed and did not die so easily.

***

The woman’s home was a modest house with a small sitting room and two bedrooms.

“It is late, so it would be best to wash up, get treated, and rest first.”

“…What about the job?”

“It is not urgent, so it is fine.”

Strange. If it was not urgent, why had she come all the way to the slums at night of all times? Before that puzzlement could be resolved, when he came back to his senses the boy was sitting in a bathtub full of warm water. For him, who had only ever washed in a forest stream regardless of summer or winter, a hot bath was a shock unlike anything he had experienced. Was water not supposed to be cold? Water could be this warm? He came out wearing the clothes the woman had given him, and she dried his hair with a towel.

“Look at this. A lovely pink color.”

The woman smiled and held up a mirror. His own clean reflection, without a speck of dirt, looked back at him.

“I have pink eyes too. We look alike, do we not?”

“…Nonsense.”

They said there was no such thing as kindness without reason, so did this woman also have some scheme to use him? Like the dead owner who had taken him in as a newborn and thrown him in a basement? Tap. The boy shook off the woman’s hand and said coldly.

“Do not treat me like a child.”

“But you are a child.”

“…”

In the slums there was no distinction between adult and child. There were only the living, the sick, and the dead. But the woman had been treating him like a child from the moment they met. In terms of age, of course, he was a child. The boy was about six, and the woman looked to be in her late teens or early twenties. Taking his reaction as nothing more than a child’s sulking, the woman now began treating his injuries.

“Do not touch them. The wounds could fester.”

As long as he did not die, injuries like these always healed on their own. Did he really need medicine and bandages? Just as the woman was closing the medicine box. Grumble… A vigorous sound came from the boy’s stomach. Going hungry was simply a given in the slums, so the boy just blinked. No one had ever told him that showing hunger was something to be embarrassed about, so he did not know to be embarrassed.

“Would you like some soup? There is bread too.”

“Is that all right?”

Sharing food was unheard of. But the woman quickly set out piping hot soup and soft, fluffy bread in front of the boy.

“Unbelievable.”

How long had it been since he had eaten such a lavish meal. The soup even had large chunks of meat and potato in it. As the boy wolfed down the food, the woman spoke.

“My name is Arcelia.”

“Arcelia?”

“Yes. What is your name?”

“…”

The boy had no name. In the back alleys there was no particular need to be called by a name, and on the rare occasion he strayed outside the back alleys, he was called things like this. Filthy rat. Bug. Garbage. No one had ever given a name to someone who had spent his whole life in the back alleys. He shoved more bread into his mouth and answered.

“I do not have one.”

“What do other people call you?”

“Just hey, or oi, something like that.”

For some reason the woman’s expression was not good.

‘Could it be because I ate everything?’

Was he supposed to leave some? He was glancing sideways and wondering whether to put down his spoon when.

“Isis.”

“What?”

“How about Isis? As your name.”

My name…?