The seven year old ran through the dark squalor that made up his neighbourhood, darting around broken crates spilling their scavenged innards over the rough ground and the vermin, human and otherwise, that hid their secrets in the filth.
If he could reach the transit station, he could make it to a higher level. He could make it to Jensen.
The shadows were closing in.
Men in expensive dark suits and jackets that had no place in the poverty that made up the base of the City, drawing closer.
He'd seen them before, watching him with beady eyes, following him.
Jensen called him paranoid.
Who is being paranoid now?
Two blocks to go.
He could almost see salvation - lit like a beacon in a world of candles.
A pain in his shoulder - a sharp sting.
Then the darkness came and he saw no more.