Rats? I’d only ever thought of them as vermin. Dirty, destructive, breeding faster than anything but cockroaches, faster than any cat could catch them. Beyond that, they weren’t worth a second thought. They’d barely crossed my mind, save for the rare craving when they were just… dinner.

On NOAH 1, they were scarce, but in Floating City, every street vendor seemed to have them—fried, grilled, rotisserie, any way you wanted. The smell of roasting meat teased my senses, made my whiskers tremble, my mouth water.

Never did I imagine I’d be here, desperate for rats to save my life, turning to the very creatures my kind had hunted for sport and food. But here I was, racing alongside Lee with Flynn clutching onto his back as if his life depended on it. We wove through thick crowds, veered around rickshaw wheels, and sprinted across the swaying, rickety bridge toward Floating City’s shadowed borough —the Big Yard.

Lee eased his pace as we neared a sign with rough, scratched lettering that read, “BIG YARD - scraps for grab.” Not many humans lived out here; mostly, it was just rats burrowing into heaps of metal and plastic waste. Now and then, a small crowd of people would arrive, wheeling carts and rummaging through the junk piles for scraps — whatever they could find that'd be useful.

The Shelter, tucked in a far corner of Big Yard near the water, was what Lee feared most. The Warden sometimes made his rounds here, on the lookout for escaped strays. He usually only apprehended cats and dogs if complaints surfaced about disturbances, unruly behavior, or theft from vendors.

Lee hesitated at the edge of Big Yard, worried the Warden might be around. Flynn, however, was confident, saying the Warden was probably off fishing, as he did whenever the day stretched out in boredom. But today was anything but that. The explosion at the apothecary had drawn a crowd, and word had spread quickly. Chances were, the Warden had abandoned his post to join the scene.

Flynn leapt from Lee’s back and led us up three tiers of stacked, black rubber tires. When we reached the top, I glanced down the opening to see a thick mat of barbed wire hiding something underneath. Flynn went first, landing to the side to avoid the steel thorns, then eased the wire fence aside to reveal a round metal door.

He knocked twice, paused, then tapped three more times.

A loud, sharp clang resounded from behind the door, which then shuddered open with the low groan of rusty hinges. Flynn stepped back to avoid the tangle of barbed wire clinging to the door’s surface, its jagged points ready to scratch and bleed anyone who ventured too close. A rat peeked out with a spear in his hands, his whiskers twitching, eyes darting cautiously before widening in startled delight upon spotting Flynn.

“Flynn! You're alive!” The exclamation burst from the rat, pure joy in his voice—until his eyes found us above, watching from the top of the stacked tires.

“P-predators!” He raised the spear, pointing it at me and Lee. “They’re up there!”

“Flynn, get inside! Quickly!”

“Nigel, it’s alright,” Flynn replied. “They’re with me. They won’t hurt you.” He shot us a glance, a silent request to speak up, to let the rat know he was safe.

I spoke up first. “There’s danger, and we need your help! Now’s the time for us to work together, regardless of our differences.”

This seemed to calm Nigel somewhat, but he still denied us entry, permitting only Flynn to proceed.

“You’ll have to speak with the Wise Keepers, Flynn,” Nigel said. “You know the rules — no one outside our kind can enter the nest without explicit approval from them.”

Flynn glanced up at us, apology in his eyes. “He’s right. Wait here; I’ll speak with the elders,” he said before disappearing into the entrance. Nigel gave us one last wary look and shut the door. The clang echoed, louder and more resolute than before.

Minutes dragged on, the sky still bright, the day deceptively young. But my patience was wearing thin. Who knew how much time I had left? An uneasy feeling crept in. My window of opportunity was closing, shrinking with every passing second.

Lee, too, was growing impatient, his worry mounting. His body tensed, ready to spring, eyes wide and alert as they scanned the grounds for any sign of the Warden’s return from his fishing trip.

“I don’t want to go back to the Shelter!” he protested, voice breaking.

“You won’t,” I promised, dropping down into the tires’ opening. I landed atop the barbed wire below, but the thorns passed harmlessly through me as if I were smoke.

“What are you doing?” Lee’s voice quivered with unease.

“I have an idea. Funny it didn’t occur to me sooner.”

“What is it?”

“I can move through walls. I’ll slip inside, see what those rats are up to… if they’re going to help me at all.”

Lee's face sank, eyes fraught with worry. “And what about me? What should I do?”

“Wait here.”

“Here? B-but…the Warden could be back any second!”

“Try to keep out of sight. Find a spot to hide nearby—I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

*****

The first time I witnessed a specter pass through walls was the afternoon Jimmy didn’t wake from his nap. I’d crept into his cabin, where he bunked with three other stewards, hoping to snag a treat—and truthfully, his company too. Sometimes he’d save a starfish or a pouch of grilled mussels from Floating City to share. He’d taught me much about the Great Wrath, painting vivid pictures of a world that once was, a world that felt like a myth. He was one of the last human archives, a keeper of memories no one else remembered.

Jimmy, though he was old, preferred the top bunk, and each morning he’d jump down with the spirit of a younger man. A tune always on his lips, ready to greet the day. But as I climbed the ladder that afternoon, there was an odd heaviness settled around me. I edged onto the bed beside him, noticing the unnatural stillness of his chest. I leaned closer, listening for the faintest hint of breath or heartbeat. There was nothing.

But a strange feeling told me I wasn’t alone. There, standing before the mirror, was Jimmy, buttoning his peacoat and humming a light-hearted tune. A faint golden light cloaked him, yet when he looked at himself in the mirror, his reflection was missing, replaced by clusters of tiny golden lights that floated and shimmered where he should have been.

He turned to me with a playful wink before passing through the wall. And sometimes, even now, I still sensed him nearby—a darkened shadow gliding up the stairwell or a trace of mist lingering on the main deck, always just at the edge of sight.