Sanna Amari
Shadowdance
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The sultry, suffocating heat of Jakarta still hung leadenly in the narrow streets late at night, mingling with the acrid smell of exhaust fumes and the cloying aroma of street food. Luna, seventeen and homeless, had just squeezed herself out of a mountain of cardboard boxes that had formed her sleeping place. Her green eyes, alert and attentive, scanned the surroundings. It was the time when the city slept, but the shadows came alive - their time to search for hiding places, for the next morsel or for unattended value. Their movements were fleeting, a dance in the shadows that had so far ensured their survival.
Then it appeared.
The transparent pop-up interface materialized right in front of her eyes, amidst the haze above the garbage cans. "What... the hell?" muttered Luna, her lips pressed tightly together. A new piece of junk clouding her vision? Her first impulse was anger - she had no time for nonsense. Her hand involuntarily went up to push the phantom away, but her finger poked at nothing. The words "Start game" lit up, clear and bold. A game? Life was a fight for survival, not a damn game!
But the panic surging up from the surrounding streets was more real than any screen. A deafening crash shook the alley, followed by a scream that rang through the bones. Everywhere people froze, stared into the air or stumbled blindly. The loud city noise disintegrated into a chaos of sirens, shattering glass and panicked shouts. Luna felt her muscles tense. Danger. New. Unknown. But also: opportunity.
Her gaze flitted over the floating selection of twelve character classes. Warrior? She had never held a weapon. Ranger? Nonsense, the city was their jungle. Healer? She had no talent for that, only scuffed patches. Elementalist? That sounded like science fiction garbage, not survival. Summoner? What could she summon, except maybe a few rats? Craftsmen? She could mend a broken backpack, that was all. Traders? Their "business" was bartering for survival, not speculation. A clergyman? She only believed in what she could see and touch. Mystics? Just talk and superstition. Wanderer? She wandered every day, it wasn’t a skill, it was her life.
Her eyes lingered on the thief. Stealth. Agility. Pickpocketing. Lock picking. That was her. This was her life. The skills she had used to survive in this hell. A barely perceptible jolt. She hadn’t consciously clicked, but her will to survive had made the choice. The interface disappeared, leaving a strange feeling, as if something had burned itself into her mind.
"Thief," Luna whispered, her voice raspy. Her body, small and wiry, tensed. She was ready. She dashed out of the alley, not on the run, but on the chase. The streets were a sea of abandoned vehicles that had turned into rusty wrecks. Valuables lay open, unattended. An overturned food trolley beckoned with fruit. Her hands twitched. But then she saw an old woman sitting next to a wrecked tuk-tuk, sobbing and helpless. The woman’s gaze was blank, her eyes fixed on an invisible point in the air. Panic had paralyzed her. A brief inner struggle. Hunger gnawed, but the sight of despair was stronger. Luna avoided the allure of the stolen goods. Instead, she used her agility to glide to the woman unnoticed. A quick glance at the surroundings. Safe. She leaned down. "Come on," she whispered, placing her hand on the woman’s shoulder. "It’s no longer safe here. You have to get up." The world was in chaos, but Luna sensed that this moment required more than just instinctive survival. Sometimes you had to break the rules to do the right thing. And even in the biggest shadows, there was always a spark of light - you just had to find it and protect it.