Consequence of Oversight

Blind Eye

The loud wail of a large whistle signaled the end of another lifeless workday for the game butchers outside of Anchorhead. The heat had been merciless, pressing against the workers' backs, leaving the scent of sweat and sand clinging to their clothes. One by one, the laborers tidied their stations and filed in line to receive their meager wages.

Among them, a lone man moved with quiet precision. He sliced a piece of meat from his block, wrapped it carefully in a cloth, and tucked it away before stepping into line. His presence was an unspoken rule—no one spoke to him, and he spoke to no one. He was a ghost, existing on the fringes, always looking down, always watching but never acting.

"This is only half."

The words broke the rhythm of the line.

Ben lifted his gaze from his fidgeting hands, his stomach tightening at the sight before him. An older man—wrinkled from years beneath the twin suns, his hair streaked with white—held his pay in both hands, his face drawn with exhaustion.

"Please," the man begged, his voice thick with desperation. "I have a family—"

A heavy shove cut him off, nearly knocking him to the ground.

"One more word, and I take it all! Keep movin'." The foreman's voice was sharp, final, uncaring.

Ben's hands curled into fists at his sides. His body tensed, every fiber of his being screaming at him to do something, to step in, to make it right. This isn't fair. This isn't right.

But he didn't move.

He swallowed the anger, forced it down. His shoulders slouched, his fingers unclenched, and he stepped forward, collecting his wages—wages which had not been reduced. 

The foreman eyed him with suspicion, as if waiting for him to react. "Somethin' you wanna say?" the man snapped, his tone edged with challenge.

Ben hesitated, his throat dry.

The old him would have spoken. The old him would have done something. But that man was long dead.

"...No," he muttered, turning away. He walked off without another word, ignoring the scoff that followed him.

The guilt clawed at his chest. Not just for the man. Not just for the injustice. But for himself. For what he had become.

And for the growing certainty that he wasn't the only one aware of his soul's corrosion.

◃◬▹

The streets of Anchorhead bustled with the usual chaos—haggling merchants, gamblers throwing away their wages, and children weaving through the crowds, their laughter ringing above the hum of conversation. The air was thick with dust and the scent of spice. The suns burned high overhead, baking the sand into an unforgiving heat.

Hazel walked through it all unnoticed, her hood drawn low over her face.

She didn't need to hide. No one was looking for her, but old habits died hard. 

She moved with purpose, her ocean-teal eyes scanning the marketplace with quiet intent. Analyzing. Observing. People-watching, her aunt would've called it.

Anything was better than being stuck in that cavern, waiting for Ben to return to the suffocating silence that had become their routine. He barely looked at her anymore. When he did, it was either to ask her about her day as if everything was fine, or worse, to tell her to stay hidden. To stay safe.