THE BROKEN DREAMS

The city at 5:30 AM was a different world.

Empty.

Haunted.

Shadows stretched long under the flickering streetlights, and the only sounds were the distant rumble of early matatus and the soft whisper of the wind blowing trash along the sidewalks.

Fred walked fast, head down, hands stuffed deep in his hoodie pocket.

Every breath steamed out of him like smoke.

His sneakers slapped the cracked pavement, each step loud in the frozen silence.

Nobody paid him attention — another street rat wandering the pre-dawn gloom.

Exactly what he needed.

He passed broken shops, sleeping security guards, and rusted cars abandoned in the middle of the street.

Masinga Street was on the edge of town, near the train tracks — a place even the police avoided unless they were desperate.

Fred had only been there once before.

It wasn't a place you visited.

It was a place you survived.

And now... he was walking straight into it.

-

He found it by the broken sign.

An abandoned warehouse, skeletal and hollow, with shattered windows like empty, staring eyes.

The metal gates hung crookedly on their hinges.

Somewhere deep inside, a dog barked once, then fell silent.

Fred stood there for a long moment.

Sweat trickled down his spine despite the cold.

This was insane.

He should turn around.

Go back.

Forget all of this.

But he heard the voice again in his mind:

"There will be trials. Tests. Betrayals. Pain."

He clenched his fists.

He wasn't going back to his old life.

Not now.

Not ever.

Fred stepped through the gate.

--

The warehouse was darker than he expected.

The only light came from a few scattered industrial lamps, their glow creating puddles of sickly yellow light on the cracked concrete floor.

And he wasn't alone.

At least twenty other figures stood inside, all wearing the same expression:

Fear.

Suspicion.

Desperation.

Boys and girls — some younger, some older — from all walks of life.

A skinny girl with bruises on her arms.

A tall boy with a broken nose.

A short, stocky kid with eyes like ice.

They all turned to look as Fred entered, sizing him up like wolves meeting another stray.

Nobody spoke.

Nobody smiled.

Everyone here was broken.

Everyone here was dangerous.

Fred kept his head down and found an empty spot near the wall.

His heart was hammering so hard it felt like it would burst out of his chest.

Was this a setup?

Was he about to get jumped?

Mugged?

Killed?

Before he could think further, a voice cut through the warehouse.

--

From the shadows, a figure emerged.

A man — tall, dressed in all black, his face hidden behind a smooth, featureless mask.

No eyes.

No mouth.

Just a blank face staring at them.

He wore gloves and heavy boots, and something about the way he moved made Fred's skin crawl.

The man carried a clipboard.

He spoke, voice cold, mechanical, emotionless:

> "Welcome, candidates. You are here because you are desperate. Because you are willing to do what others will not."

The group shifted uneasily.

Fred swallowed hard.

> "This is Shelter 6," the man continued. "Here, your past means nothing. Your future will be decided by your choices... and your strength."

He tapped the clipboard once.

> "There are no rules except survival. Trust no one. Speak only when spoken to. Betrayal will be rewarded. Weakness will be punished."

The man pointed toward a heavy metal door on the far side of the warehouse.

> "Your first trial awaits beyond that door."

> "Fifteen of you will advance. The rest... will not."

The implication was clear.

Fred's stomach twisted into knots.

The man turned without another word and disappeared through the door.

A loud, metallic clang echoed through the warehouse as the door slammed shut behind him.

For a heartbeat, nobody moved.

Then chaos exploded.

--

Someone shoved Fred hard from behind.

He stumbled forward, nearly falling.

Shouts filled the air.

Panic.

Confusion.

People ran for the door.

Others grabbed each other, wrestling, punching, biting.

Fred ducked a wild punch from a kid with a shaved head.

He dodged left, then right, heart pounding.

No alliances.

No friends.

It was survival — just like the man said.

Fred gritted his teeth and pushed through the crowd.

He slipped between two fighting boys, dodged a kick aimed at his ribs, and sprinted toward the metal door.

Somewhere behind him, he heard a scream — high-pitched and gut-wrenching.

He didn't look back.

He couldn't.

If he hesitated even a second, he would be swallowed whole.

--

The door slammed open, and Fred found himself in a long, narrow hallway lit by flickering fluorescent lights.

At the end of the hall was another door — but this one had a keypad.

A digital lock.

Red numbers blinked angrily.

Fred skidded to a stop.

Several others burst through the door behind him — the tall boy, the bruised girl, and two others Fred didn't recognize.

They stared at the keypad, breathing hard.

A new voice, hidden speakers this time, crackled to life:

> "Code: Three numbers. Solve it, and the door opens. Fail, and you remain behind."

Fred's mind raced.

Numbers.

Codes.

What did it mean?

He looked around desperately.

The walls were covered in graffiti.

Words.

Symbols.

Nonsense?

No.

It had to be here somewhere.

A clue.

A hint.

He spotted it — scrawled in black marker near the ceiling:

> "Pain, hunger, betrayal."

Three words.

Three numbers?

Pain — how many letters? 4.

Hunger — 6.

Betrayal — 8.

4-6-8?

Fred punched the numbers into the keypad.

The lock buzzed.

Red light.

Wrong.

Fred cursed under his breath.

He turned to the others — but the tall boy was already charging him, fists swinging.

---

No More Mr. Nice Guy

Fred barely dodged the first punch.

The second caught him on the shoulder, sending pain exploding down his arm.

He stumbled backward.

The others weren't waiting.

The bruised girl grabbed a rusted pipe from the floor and swung it at another boy, knocking him down in a spray of blood.

Fred ducked, weaving between the chaos.

He had seconds.

Minutes at best.

Another clue — he needed another clue.

On the floor, near the keypad, was a message:

> "Trust none."

Fred's eyes widened.

Of course.

Pain. Hunger. Betrayal.

Not the number of letters.

The alphabetical order.

P = 16th letter.

H = 8th letter.

B = 2nd letter.

16-8-2.

He punched the numbers into the keypad.

Beep.

The door clicked open.

Fred didn't hesitate.

He threw himself through the door — just as a scream of rage erupted behind him.

---

Fred collapsed onto the ground on the other side of the door, gasping for breath.

He turned just in time to see the door slam shut behind him, locking with a loud, final clang.

He was alone again.

Alive.

But only barely.

And he knew — deep in his bones — that this was only the beginning.

Shelter 6 was a maze.

A trial by blood and betrayal.

And if he wanted to survive...

He would have to become something he barely recognized anymore.

Something ruthless.

Something terrifying.

Something unstoppable.

---