𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐧

Chapter three: Push forward, Mikey

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The smell of stale bread and rotting cheese hit my nose, sharp and sour, even from a distance. Hunger gnawed at my insides, but I kept my steps slow, measured, like a soldier on patrol. I’d been here before—not in this sewer, not in this body—but in situations just like this. Scarcity. Competition. The weakest pushed to the fringes to fight over crumbs.

It didn’t bother me. Or at least, that’s what I told myself. I’d endured worse in my past life—harsh commanders, starving winters, men who thought fists and fear were the best way to lead. Yet, the familiar sting of being cast aside, overlooked, and underestimated still managed to burrow under my fur.

I slunk closer to the pile of scraps, staying low to the damp stone. Rats larger than me, their fur thick and matted with filth, clawed at each other over the food. Teeth flashed in the dim light, and the sound of snarls and squeaks echoed off the slimy walls.

My eyes scanned the pile, calculating. A crust of bread hung precariously near the edge—half-crushed, but not yet claimed. My target.

I slipped forward, silent as a shadow, keeping my movements deliberate and careful. This wasn’t my first scavenging mission. I knew better than to rush in blindly. The gray brute dominating the pile—scarred and broad-shouldered, the self-proclaimed king of this chamber—was too busy snapping at another rat to notice me.

I reached out, my paws brushing the crust. One more inch—

“Oi, what do you think you’re doing?”

The voice was sharp, cutting through the noise like a knife. My ears twitched, but I didn’t flinch. I straightened, clutching the crust to my chest as I met the brute’s glare.

“I’m taking my share,” I said flatly, my voice steady.

The brute let out a low, rumbling laugh. “Your share? Don’t make me laugh, runt. You don’t have a share. You’re lucky we even let you breathe down here.”

I tightened my grip on the crust, my claws digging into its soft surface. I’d heard this all before. Different faces, different voices, same damn tone.

“Step aside,” I said, my gaze unwavering. “I’m not in the mood to fight over garbage.”

The brute’s laughter stopped. He bared his teeth, stepping closer. The other rats fell silent, watching as he loomed over me. “You’ve got a mouth on you,” he growled. “But you’re not in any position to make demands.”

He lashed out before I could react, his massive paw swiping the crust from my hands. It tumbled to the floor, landing in a puddle. My jaw tightened as he smirked, his yellowed teeth glinting in the faint light.

“You want food? Earn it,” he sneered, shoving me backward with enough force to send me skidding across the slick stone.

I caught myself before I hit the wall, the sting of humiliation hotter than the ache in my ribs. My claws scraped against the ground as I pushed myself up, forcing my body to remain still, calm. Years of discipline kept my instinctive rage at bay.

He wasn’t worth it. Not now.

I straightened, meeting his sneer with a cold stare. “Enjoy the bread,” I said. “You’ll choke on it one day.”

The brute’s smirk faltered, just for a second, before he turned back to the pile with a dismissive grunt.

I slipped away into the shadows, my heart pounding, my stomach empty. The hunger didn’t bother me as much as the memory of his smug face. He reminded me too much of the men I’d fought beside—and against—in my past life. Bullies who thought strength was a substitute for decency.