The alarm blared at 4:30 AM, a tinny sound that echoed off the bare walls of Mateo's room. He silenced it with a practiced motion, his body rising before his mind fully awakened. Through the grimy window, the sky was still dark, stars fading as the first hints of dawn approached.
No time to waste. He needed to get a bath, go to the arcade, get paid, and get that admission ticket.
The doubt of failure crept to the back of his mind, but like every other insecurity, he ignored it.
His stomach growled as he dressed, reminding him of last night's decision to skip dinner. He ignored it, splashing cold water on his face at the communal sink down the hall.
With his towels and an extra set of clothes for the day, he stepped into one of the bathing stalls at the far end of the general washing room. He turned on the old faucet. Only drops of cold water leaked out. Of course, it was to be expected. There was only a 20% chance of getting water on a normal day.
Most of the resources had been prioritized for the richer class in the cities at the center and the far end of the country, mostly safe from the stray bullets that came from the war zones. He'd just have to put on an absurd amount of deodorant and hope that masked his musk.
He walked outside the stall to the sink. The mirror above it was cracked, distorting his reflection into fragmented pieces—a tall, lean young man with perpetually dark circles under his eyes and a set to his jaw that belied his eighteen years.
He closed his eyes. He could still smell the smoke, the scent of burning human flesh like pork, the screams of mutilated and maimed survivors.
He opened his eyes. The only thing he could see now was the broken man in the broken mirror.
"Get a move on, kid." A grumpy voice said behind him.
Two residents waited behind him, faces drawn with fatigue. Morning routines in The Cemetery were coordinated with military precision; everyone knew which five-minute window belonged to them.
"Heard explosions last night," muttered an older woman as she shuffled forward to take his place. Her gray hair was tied in a messy bun, the wrinkles around her eyes deepening with worry. "Getting closer."
A man with a prosthetic leg nodded in agreement. "Government's lying about how bad it is. My cousin near the border says they're losing ground every day."
Mateo nodded but didn't engage further. Rumors and fears were constant companions in these halls. He had learned to filter out the noise.
All that mattered to him was to leave this place and become a hero, both to avenge his brother and to live out his dream. He was sure that's what Alec would've wanted.
Back in his room, he counted his money again. Two hundred and eighty-five dollars. Today would be the day he reached his goal if luck was on his side.
He packed his gym clothes, a bottle of water, and an apple he'd been saving—the only food he'd allow himself until dinner. As he zipped the backpack, his fingers brushed against the cloth-wrapped object at the bottom. Alec's horn. His reminder. His purpose.
The streets were quiet at this hour, the darkness broken only by the occasional sweep of surveillance drones overhead. Their red scanning beams cut through the pre-dawn gloom, searching for curfew violators or more sinister threats. Mateo kept to the shadows out of habit. The drones rarely bothered with ordinary citizens, but attracting official attention was never a good idea. Why would he waste their resources?
The arcade was on the other side of the street, then five blocks to the left. It was early. He would clock in extra hours. Hopefully his colleagues wouldn't be around on some excuse so he could take their shifts.
As he thought about how he'd earn more coin, something blocked his path.
"Well, well, well. If it isn't the little hero." The guy sneered, stepping sideways to block Mateo's path when he tried to step aside.
He gritted his teeth. He knew that voice. It was that annoying prick with the pickup truck that helped with deliveries. Brett, that was his name. At least, that was his day job. At night, Mateo had seen him a couple of times with a black mask covering his face and a knife, entering his truck with a couple other goons. He never asked why. He already knew the answer.
Every other day, Brett was either entering the nearby motel with a couple of girls by his side or leaving alone completely drunk and retching in the gutters. Occasionally he even dropped in the gym, just to gain a little muscle to impress people.
It seemed to be working. He was broad-shouldered, stood taller than Mateo with decently sized biceps. That was how he knew Mateo. From the gym.
What he wasn't supposed to know was that Mateo wanted to be a hero.
He never told anyone about his ambition. Last night with Arx was the first time he had told anyone about it.
Arx wouldn't just ramble about it to anyone, would he? Well, he didn't tell him to keep it a secret. Still, that wasn't like him.
"Don't bother denying it, Footmat." Brett sneered. The nickname stung—they'd started calling him that after seeing him get knocked down repeatedly during a sparring session at the gym. "Your old man Arx got drunk with my boss last night and babbled on about your stupid idea of becoming a hero. HAHAHA!"
He laughed like he had told the funniest joke in the world, and some of his other friends started coming into the alleyway. One guy had a spiky haircut that didn't belong in this decade with burn scars all over his body—Razor, they called him. Another was completely bald but had tattoos of skulls etched on every part of his skin. They called him Bones. Nothing more than a couple of cringy kids trying to act tough, but in The Cemetery, even cringy kids could be dangerous.
Mateo stood silent and looked him in the eye. "Move. I'm trying to get to work."
Brett's face stopped laughing as it twisted to an ugly expression. "Huh? Trying to ignore me? You're not going anywhere, Hero."
Fine, Mateo would try talking his way out of this shit. "Didn't you hear Arx? It was a joke. Me? Someone without a quirk as a hero? Ridiculous, right?"
It pained him to say it, but he would have to do anything to get out of this situation.
Bones, the bald guy with the skull tattoos, walked up to Brett. "Look at him, bro. Ain't he the kid that works at that old arcade no one even goes to? He's broke and doesn't have any powers. You wanna beat up a defenseless kid for no reason?"
Both of them paused, as if pretending to ponder. Then they burst out laughing, bellowing guffaws that sent speckles of spit to Mateo's hair. A sick chill crept up his spine.
"Beating up defenseless kids is my favorite pastime!" Brett said, clutching his side from the laughter. "Next to smoking that Cana and blowing those chicks in the Motel."
"Besides—" He continued, cracking his knuckles in anticipation. "I see this guy laying hell on the punching bag in the gym. He's got some serious skills. So what do you say, Hero?"
His eyes clashed with Mateo's, and it felt like sparks were flying between them. "Come and beat up this villain."
Guess there was no way around it. This guy wanted a fight. Mateo tried to recall if Brett had a quirk and what kind it was. He didn't know much about him, but if he could pick up a fight with random people, he was either really strong or had a really strong power. He was going with the latter because of his arrogant attitude.
Mateo clenched his teeth, took a deep breath in and out, and got into a fighting stance. He remembered what he told Arx. He would turn his body into a weapon.
Brett smirked, and raised his fists into a boxing position. "Let's fucking go."