The Pit

Gabriel Grey didn’t dream.

Dreams were expensive, distracting, and for people with options. They were glazed pastries in shop windows, tempting, distant luxuries, stoking a hunger that made him grind his teeth. It stung to be shown things he couldn’t have.

Instead, he strived to keep his thoughts practical, disciplined, and safe. He counted plates. He counted the minutes, which dragged through each hour in a cramped hell politely called the dish pit. His gloved hands tore through towers of grubby porcelain plates, finger-printed silverware, and lipstick-trimmed glasses. He scrubbed away the caked-on crud, squinting through back spray as the industrial washer roared behind him, plunged into an awful din of white noise.

Steam frizzed his parched, box-bleach blond hair, and damp spots bloomed across his white uniform jacket, clinging translucent against the black T-shirt underneath.

Jobs like these were always the same: thankless, grimy, and physically punishing. It was work that made him disappear into the background; and that’s what he wanted. Invisibility was a small mercy.

Staff buzzed around him, preparing the cramped kitchen for afternoon service. Every time someone slid behind him with a muttered ‘corner’ or ‘behind’, he flinched despite himself. In the tiniest instances; a body brushing against his in tight quarters; a pulse of heat sparked under his skin, sharp and unwelcome, like the snap of a static charge. He took great pains to avoid it.

He tightened his gloves, flexing them over his knuckles, schooling his face back into neutral composure. As long as he was careful; as long as he stayed unnoticed; he could survive.

He’d been doing exactly that for three years now, in the city of Charon. It was long enough to learn its rhythms: where to feed; which alleys stayed lit at night, and which didn’t; which kitchens paid cash, and weren’t picky. The years left their mark, ingrained into his posture and the set of his shoulders, a vigilance that never fully eased.

Eventually—slowly, painfully—he’d saved enough for a place of his own. ‘Place’ was generous. It was a squalid basement sublet beneath an old rowhouse downtown. But it was cheap; his name wasn’t on the utility record, or a formal lease; and he paid the rent in cash. As an added bonus, his landlord’s haphazard, broken English meant he didn’t ask questions, or gossip.

All thanks to jobs like this. He adjusted his gloves again, smooth and opaque, a barrier as much against filth as against other people.

He scrubbed harder, letting the rhythm of the work drown out his thoughts.

Those thoughts wandered anyway, drifting toward the front of house, to the restaurant bar.

In the rare times he allowed himself hope, he pictured himself there instead: behind polished marble instead of steel, hands clean and bare. The bar was a slab of white stone with ash-blue veins, it’s gentle convex edge nesting velvet-upholstered stools. Behind it, cherry wood shelves lacquered to a mirror shine held ranks of top-shelf bottles and tiara-cut glassware that scattered light like stars.

The bartenders moved in theater. Smoke curled beneath glass cloches, infusing cocktails. Herbs were flamed with flourish, anointing drinks with prestige and craft. Their uniforms were crisp, like stage magicians—white shirts with stiff mandarin collars, black bow ties, pinstriped vests—and every motion was confident, precise, and intentional. He imagined the choreography: the sharp rhythm of knives, the hush of poured liquor, the clean music of ice against glass. But it might as well be the edge of the universe, compared to the pit.

The thought soured as quickly as it came. The familiar sting returned; the ache of wanting something he couldn’t have. He scowled down at the plate in his hands, scraping at a stubborn crust of dried-on residue. Maybe it had once been gravy. Maybe a fossilized sprig of parsley. Whatever it was, it clung like rot, resisting every stroke of his gloved nail.

Then he felt it: that persistent prickle at the base of his skull, which made his neck hairs stand on end. Someone was close by, and watching him.

Gabe looked over his shoulder to find his manager standing behind him, taping a notice to the tiled wall.

“All good, Gabriel?” the man asked casually.

Gabe smiled on instinct, aiming for pleasantly forgettable, and gave a short nod. Only when the manager moved on did he step closer, wiping his gloved hands on his jacket as he read the paper.

CHARON SAFETY COMMISSION: INSPECTION

Random checks tomorrow

All employees must bring IDs, official documentation

See management with questions

His stomach dropped.

The dishwasher beeped behind him, shrill and insistent. Across the kitchen, someone shouted the arrival of a meat delivery, punctuated by the piercing squeal of a hand cart on tile.

Gabe glanced up at the sound. The man pushing the handcart was unusually tall, and moved through the crowded kitchen as if it made room for him. Though the handcart screeched with the weight of heavy crates, the man seemed unbothered by it. Something about the way he moved, wearing normalcy like a jacket, made Gabriel’s shoulders tighten. The man’s gaze flicked up, quick but precise, and caught Gabriel’s.

Gabe looked down at once, hands already grasping for the dishwasher. He popped the latch and yanked the door open, breathing through the hot steam until the moment passed.

He closed his eyes and tried to calm his pet paranoias.

The thoughts didn’t settle.

He rolled out the rack and stared down at the dishes—immaculate now, gleaming under fluorescent light. Straightening out cautiously, he stacked plates against his chest and carried them to the steel plating counter, where they’d be dressed, delivered, and depleted, dripping with refuse.

The endless cycle. Sisyphus had his boulder. Gabe had dishes.

He exhaled, trying to expel his nagging dread. He just had to finish this shift: one plate, one minute, and one careful step at a time.

The dread kept droning on, and refused to quiet. Gabe needed air. He decided on a smoke.

The back door was propped open with a brick for the meat delivery, letting a brisk February breeze snake in as he approached it.

The late winter air prickled against his damp skin, and he hissed, rolling down his sleeves. Despite the chill, it felt good to be free of the kitchen gloves; to touch fabric, and to feel his own skin.

His pants sat loose on his hips, even with his belt pulled to the last hole. He fumbled in those low-hanging pockets for a half-crushed pack of menthols and a battered, blue plastic lighter. The familiar search and ritual steadied him.

Gabe leaned back against the brick wall, pondering a stack of broken-down cardboard as he smoked. He welcomed the bite of nicotine, and the chill in the back of his throat.

He shivered, folding his arms tight over his chest, and tucked one hand in his armpit for warmth.

Just when he had found a moment of calm, the meat packer emerged from the back kitchen, his squeaky handcart now empty and clattering behind him. Gabe startled, nearly dropping his cigarette.

“Cold out here,” the man said mildly.

He had an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth, just waiting to be lit. Although he wore a battered gray beanie and a pilled red scarf wrapped up to his chin, they felt like props. He moved with a slack, fluid ease that didn’t match the cold.

The man abandoned his handcart beside his truck, then approached Gabriel with long, sweeping strides. Gabe scooted further down the wall, trying to give the man leeway, but the man adjusted course. He stopped short just before Gabe, his shadow stretching against the red brick.

The man tilted his head, eyes locking with him; eyes so pale blue, they were almost white. “Got a light?”

Gabe’s hand twitched toward his pocket. He forced his shoulders down, and tore his gaze away. “Uh… yeah,” he mumbled, fumbling his pack of menthols. His breath turned to haze in the cold air, as he pulled the blue plastic lighter from his pocket, holding it out to him.

The man’s lips curved faintly, almost a smirk as he leaned in just a fraction closer. Gabe hesitated, fingers frozen on the lighter. Registering the message, he struck the spark wheel clumsily, his thumbnail grating against its serrated edge. After what felt like an eternity of misfires, the cigarette finally caught its flame, to Gabe’s relief.

“Thanks,” the man grumbled, teeth clenched around the end of his cigarette. He took a long, deliberate drag, holding the smoke in his chest, then exhaled into the open air.

He leaned against the brick wall beside Gabe, one hand in his pocket, the other brushing against a flyer tacked haphazardly to the wall: the restaurant inspection notice.

“Random checks here too, huh?” he said lightly, shaking his head, “They’re everywhere. Funny how this city treats some folks, isn’t it?”

Gabe’s chest tightened. He opened his mouth, then snapped it shut, looking away with a shiver. The ash from his neglected cigarette was shook loose, and he took a hurried drag. He shrugged in response, a ribbon of smoke escaping his chapped lips.

The man’s winter blue eyes held him steadily, observing. A faint smirk tugged at his lips. “You know what these inspections are for, right? It’s an excuse to round up the folks who stick out. The ones they think should be kept in a cage…”

He glanced at Gabe from the corner of his eye, tilting his head just slightly. “It’s a special kind of evil, if you ask me. Going after people at their jobs. Right?”

He exhaled another slow stream of smoke and leaned back, leaving the words hanging. Gabe forced his posture straight, dropped the remainder of his smoke, and ground it out with his shoe. He gripped his belongings in his pockets, signaling he was about to leave.

The man flicked ash from his cigarette, letting it fall to the snow-dusted pavement. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You’re a tough nut to crack,” he said, low and casual. “Most people would’ve tripped over their own nerves by now.”

Gabe shuddered, a flicker of confusion passing through him. He didn’t know whether to be flattered or defensive. “What are you even talking about?” he muttered, glancing at the kitchen door nervously. “I gotta get back to work.”

The man straightened, letting the smoke curl lazily from his lips. “Don’t do that,” he said, voice even, almost playful. It stopped Gabe in his tracks. “I just… notice things. Can’t help it.” His eyes swept over Gabe again, slow, deliberate, as if reading him like an open ledger. Then, quiet, almost a murmur: “Like how some people’s eyes burn gold when they’re pressed. Had your glamours touched up, lately?”

He leaned back against the brick wall, hands tucked in his pockets, casual but imposing. He said nothing more, letting the words hang in the cold air.

Gabriel froze, hackles raised. He blinked several times, checking himself; he ran his palm flat against his head, fingers raking through his thick blond hair.

“Are you high?” he hissed, finding his fire. He scanned the alleyway up and down. “There’s a shelter down the block. Great rehab program. Get lost.”

“Wait.”

The man pushed off the wall, a note of urgency slipping into his voice. Then he softened it with a laugh. “Didn’t mean to clock you like that. I just saw a flicker in your eyes. Thought I should tell you.”

Gabe gawked at his brazenness. “Would you shut—”

The man continued anyway.

“I just think people like us…”

He let Gabe fill in the blank, holding his gaze a beat too long. “We should help each other out.”

He began rummaging in his jean pocket for something. When he found it, he withdrew a business card, extending it to Gabe.

“The name’s Tatsuki. Call me Tatsu.” He extended his hand, with long, grubby-looking fingers. It wasn’t his hygiene that made Gabe hesitate, but the bare skin—touch, offered freely.

Gabe stared at the bare hand, then over his shoulder. They were certainly alone. Desperation flickered; whether for connection, or for this to be over, he couldn’t discern. He snatched the business card, carefully avoiding skin contact.

He glanced at the business card. It was sleek, and dark red, with raised gold foil text. It looked fancy, for Tatsu’s appearance. Gabriel squinted at the characters, printed in both English and Japanese. He could read both: Tatsuki Ando, owner and operator, Ando Family Imports.

Gabe huffed. “I’m Gabriel.” He deflated, name relinquished. “Look—you can’t just approach people in public.”

Tatsu extinguished his cigarette on the pavement, grinding it out in the snow with the toe of his boot. He grinned in satisfaction.

“Gabriel,” he repeated the name, and ignored the critique, “You seem like you handle yourself well. If you’re looking for more secure work, some place you can be yourself… give me a call.” A pause, faintly amused. “Pay’s good, at least. Let’s discuss it over drinks, maybe.”

Gabe scoffed, skepticism swelling with annoyance. He pocketed the business card gruffly. “Sure. Right. I gotta go.”

Tatsuki winked at him, clicking his tongue.

Gabe turned away, pushed through the door and returned to his station, face still flushed from the cold—and Tatsu’s nerve. He snapped on a fresh pair of black nitrile gloves, letting the familiar rhythm—scrub, scrape, soap, rinse, dishwasher—pull him back into the kitchen’s dull monotony. The white noise of running water and machinery helped.

Reluctantly, his calm, controlled mask returned.

The smells in the kitchen shifted, layered now with seared meat, garlic, and rising steam. He wondered if it was the meat Tatsu delivered—and what Tatsu actually was. Eccentric, direct, maybe dangerous… and disturbingly perceptive. There was something about him Gabe couldn’t place. He wondered if Tatsuki had him pinned, already; a thought that made his chest clench.

The day passed, between high, frothing crests of paranoia and low, dark troughs of numbness. He clocked out, and hung up his uniform shirt, swapping it out for his threadbare jacket. He walked to the bus stop, tucking his chin into his jacket collar against the cold. He boarded the city bus, the neon of elite midtown nightclubs painting his face in light through the tinted window. As they headed downtown, his eye was caught by backlit posters advertising succubi dens. His stomach twisted into a knot.

He disembarked at his stop, when the thought caught up with him. He’d gone another day without feeding. The cold had driven people indoors. The streets were empty, and too quiet here; he was already too close to home to justify circling back. Whatever he needed tonight would take time, which he didn’t have.

He tightened the grip on his jacket and kept walking. It would have to wait.

Gabe slipped through the entrance to his basement room, replacing the key and its chain around his neck. The room was dim, lit by a single bulb mounted on an exposed beam in an unfinished ceiling. It smelled of damp concrete and old carpet. His bed faced an old icebox beside a deep laundry sink. There was an unfinished room with a toilet and shower; calling it a ‘bathroom’ was too generous.

But it was his shelter, and for now, that was enough.

Without pausing to relax, he set to work. He tossed a spare shirt, pilled hoodie, and socks into a nylon bag. Cash, folded and scuffed, slid into his pants pocket; a worn pocketknife into his waistband. A tiny flashlight, lighter, and half-empty pack of menthols joined his belongings. Patting around under the bathroom sink, he found his freezer bag of cash wrapped in cling film behind a pipe, and added it to a hidden pocket in the bag.

When he was finished, he paused at the edge of his bed, staring down at his work. He was used to fitting his entire life into a single bag by now, but this time the blow felt heavier. He’d only had this apartment a few months. He’d let himself believe, briefly, that it might last.

He knew better.

If he was pulled aside at work the next day, he’d be caught. The moment they tried to run his fake ID, it would unravel. Questions. A second look. A quiet hand on his shoulder.

He’d seen “random checks” before—sometimes in passing, sometimes on the local news, faces obscured by hoods and names withheld. Tatsuki hadn’t been wrong about that. In Charon, they were never random. They were how the city reminded certain people they didn’t belong.

There were humans, and there were others.

Once, others had names; whole categories of them, living openly in a city built on the fault line between worlds. Gabriel didn’t know when that changed, or who decided it—but by the time he arrived in his teens, the rules were already clear. Be visible, and doors closed. Be honest, and they slammed.

Some managed to make it work. The wealthy ones. The registered ones. People with the money to keep their paperwork clean and their secrets polished. Gabriel had never been one of them.

If he was caught tomorrow, he’d be detained at best. Outed, at least. The worst, he tried not to think about.

Either way, everything he’d scraped together—this job, this room, this fragile quiet—would vanish.

His landlord was watching TV, the tinny sounds of the speaker snaking in through the air vents above him. Pipes clicked and settled. Ordinary, human noise. Hearing the world go on around him, with neither care nor notice for him, was comforting. He felt safe.

Tomorrow would decide if he was allowed to keep that safety.

With a groan, he plopped down onto the bed, the cheap mattress squeaking. He laid on his back, hands folded on his chest, and blinked at the exposed pipes above him thoughtfully. Grudgingly, he began imagining the next day: the inspection, the flashing lights, the agents. He ran through possible scenarios in his head, checking off boxes like exits, and hiding places.

His eyes snapped open. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he rummaged until he retrieved Tatsuki’s business card. Lifting it to the light, he turned it carefully, watching the foiled letters gleam.

He read it over once more, then rolled over, dropping the card into his bag. He zipped the bag shut, slid it under his makeshift bed, and tried to squash the dread curdling in his stomach. Tomorrow, he’d either make it—or he wouldn’t. There wasn’t much else he could do; he was as prepared as he could be.

He drifted off into an uneasy sleep, resisting the urge to dream; to dream of a life beyond the pit.