You were born on the rich side, where dirt is a rumor and blood never stains long enough to matter. Your hands stayed clean-not because you were careful, but because the world was. Well your side at least.
Jewels weighed your wrists. Safety wrapped your throat like silk. Freedom was handed to you so often it stopped feeling special. You smiled easily. Spoke to anyone. Asked questions people laughed off instead of answering.
But the Slums were different.
They weren't ugly to you-just unfinished. Like a sentence cut off mid-thought.
If we're all human, why is there a gate?
