"We were never allowed to be children. Only weapons. Or warnings."
Her name was Hotaru.
She didn't remember her parents—not their names, not their faces. Just the screaming. And the smell of smoke. That always came first.
Hotaru was nine years old, though people said she looked younger. Probably because she hadn't eaten in three days. Her yellow coat—once too big—now hung loosely from her bony shoulders. She had tied the sleeves around her waist, hiding the bloodstains.
The District 14 Exclusion Zone was supposed to be abandoned. The Council said it was "contaminated," a dead sector beyond salvation. That was a lie. Hotaru knew it because she was alive—and she wasn't alone.
Beneath the rubble of what used to be a school, more than thirty cursed children were hiding.
They called it The Burrow.
There were no adults. Only children with crimson eyes, black pupils, and too many scars. They shared stolen food, blankets made from old curtains, and rumors—always rumors.
"They're rounding up kids in District 8."
"They're sending some outside the walls."
"They killed Misaki. Just for looking at them."
Hotaru didn't speak much. She was the quiet one. The one who could hear the Gastrea coming before anyone else. The one who had led five kids to safety after a Class III broke through the west barricade. They called her "Canary."
Not because she sang.
But because she always knew when death was coming.
That morning, she stood at the edge of a collapsed highway bridge, watching the mist rise. Her cursed blood made her skin cold to the touch, even in the growing heat.
Behind her, a smaller girl tugged at her coat.
"Hotaru-nee," she whispered. "Is it true? About the Steel Man?"
Hotaru blinked. "What?"
"Some of the older girls say there's a man with a robot arm who fights the Council. They say he protects cursed children."
Hotaru turned her gaze back to the skyline.
There were too many stories like that.
Hope stories.
She didn't believe in them.
"Don't count on ghosts," she said softly. "They never come."
But even as she said it, something stirred deep in her chest—an ache she didn't have words for.
Maybe a memory.
Maybe a wish.
That night, the air grew heavy.
Hotaru woke to a strange vibration in the floor of The Burrow. The older kids were already moving—unspoken drills rehearsed in whispers and fear.
Then came the sound.
Boots.
Not many.
Just three.
But they were heavy, methodical—trained.
Council Enforcers.
Hotaru grabbed her knife.
Not for fighting. For leading.
She slipped through a side tunnel, found the ladder shaft, and climbed silently. At the top, she emerged beneath the collapsed ruins of a playground—broken swings, scorched slides.
And there—standing in the open—was one of them.
But he wasn't Council.
He wore a long coat. His arm was silver and cracked. And beside him stood a girl with red eyes that glowed in the dark.
"Is this it?" the girl asked, scanning the ruins.
Rentarō Satomi didn't answer.
He just looked around.
Until his eyes locked with Hotaru's—where she crouched behind the remains of a metal fence.
For a long second, neither moved.
Then she stepped forward.
"I'm Hotaru," she said flatly.
Rentarō's voice was soft. "You're in charge here?"
"I'm not in charge," she said. "I'm just the one still standing."
Rentarō knelt, meeting her gaze. "That's good enough for me."
Hotaru didn't smile.
But her grip loosened on the knife.
And for the first time in weeks, she thought:
Maybe the story was real after all.