Chapter 1

It was 3:00 am and night still gripped Domino City with desperate hands.

In a few hours the streets would flood, and the empty roads would be filled to burst with cars crawling along like a procession of ants, and at about the speed of it too. But for now, with black skies tinged blue and mist settling against the pavement, the bustling City was silent.

Tucked into a dank, cluttered corner of Domino City, in a street entirely of apartment complexes and run down houses, Joey Wheeler blinked the sting out of his eyes and watched three headlights drift down the road like fireflies.

His cigarette had long ago turned stale, and added to the bitterness souring his tongue with every breath. He hadn't smoked since his gang days, and something about it clenched and twisted at his stomach in what he supposed was guilt, but he'd lost the resolve to cope without the help of a friend. And rather than tugging Yugi or Tristan into his problems, he decided to revisit his oldest companion. Its advice was the same as ever.

'Just one more smoke!'

'You'll feel better after another one.'

'Third time's the charm right?'

The smoke curled in the air, reaching up and tangling its fingers in the wind that made him shudder in his thin t-shirt and tattered jeans. Tucked between the bottom of the steel railing and the messy brickwork of his balcony, his toes were numbing.

The fireflies approached faster, and their soft globes of light turned harsh and piercing at the first whisper of a motorcycle's rumble. The rumble soon became a roar and the bikes sped past Joey's apartment at what he assumed was three times over the speed limit, their riders maniacally screeching and hooting, dragging his calm away with them.

'What am I doing? It's 3:00 o'clock in the morning, why am I even up?'

Growling to himself, he crushed the cigarette against the railing and headed back inside.

It was a stupid question. He knew why he was up.

For the past few months he'd been rising at 3:00 am every morning to get ready for the early shift at work. A street punk like Joey had suffered many defeats, insults and pain in various experiences, but he had to admit, rising early for work then realizing he had nowhere to go felt pretty fucking awful.

Yesterday had been hell on Earth. After he'd lost his job, he'd come home and angrily drained a few beers he fished out of the back of his fridge to take the edge off.

He hadn't drank all that much, but he could still feel the inklings of a hangover lingering around his head. It wasn't pain exactly, more like an odd sort of pressure, like hands squeezing at his temples. It circled his head, gently pressing here and there, threatening to dive in and erupt pain in his skull at any second.

'What now?'

What now, indeed. It was only a matter of time until the money he'd been saving started draining again. He could already feel the hunger. For food, nicotine, or peace of mind, whatever. It would begin soon, the minute those numbers started dropping. When he thought about it, it had never stopped, really. But since he met Yugi, his life had gotten considerably better and the happiness that consumed him drowned out the hunger until it was merely a whisper in comparison.

But now it had gained control again and rather than a whisper it would be howling, clawing at him, dragging him back to a dark place, a place of desperation that he never wanted to see again.

It was funny, but whenever he imagined the money disappearing, all he saw was that tiny bar of numbers rolling down, sliding out of his grasp like one of those ancient flip alarm clocks. Or like-

'-like lifepoints.'

He felt as though some creature had crawled down inside him and was gouging at him from within, scraping blunt fingernails along the pit of his stomach.

'My lifepoints are draining.'

He wanted to collapse but his bed wasn't worth collapsing into. The mattress was a piece of trash he'd picked up from some garage sale down the road. Cheap to begin with, any quality it had held at its original purchase had been beaten out of it by its previous owners. How they'd managed this, Joey didn't want to think about. Now, the mattress was nothing more than a lump of padding and broken springs. Other people, less constructive people, would find no worth or use for it, but Joey didn't mind it.

He didn't see it as broken; he saw it as well used. He could sleep almost anywhere, and he could risk sacrificing the utmost comfort to save a few bucks.

As he slumped down in the center of the bed his ass sunk deep, almost to the floor, and he felt the twang of it's split springs flicking beneath his weight.

Today his well used bed seemed pretty broken.

He wrestled with the rough sheets, burying his face in the pillow and trying to force out every painful thought that drifted through his head like stale smoke.

He ran his fingers through his hair, then grabbing fistfuls and pulling until it stung, like dull, hot needles pricking his scalp. He found the pain comforting in a way; the physicality of it grounded him while all his emotional pain seemed to do was send him flying. He used it to anchor himself, holding on for dear life as everything else whirled around him like a hurricane, battering his body and threatening to sweep him away.

As he wrenched his fingers out of the blonde mess he could feel oil lingering on them, coating his fingertips dry and damp at the same time. He needed to wash his hair. And shave.

But what for? He had nowhere to go, no one to see.

He eased up onto his shoulders and peered across the room. His cupboard was right across from his bed, and he'd left the door open after angrily flinging his clothes inside it last night. The mirror within peaked out from behind the dark wood, and he caught a glimpse of himself.

Dark bags had collected beneath his eyes and when he squinted they puffed like withered balloons. His hair hung limp and dirty from his head and blonde stubble dotted his cheeks. He looked terrible.

The dull light of the morning was playing tricks on him. As he turned his head, the shadows would manipulate his features. His face would shift and transform as he turned it this way and that, like Serenity's favorite bookmark as a child; a lenticular print of a white horse that galloped back and forth as you twisted the card.

He kept catching glimpses as he turned his head. He tilted his jaw, shadows rising and falling across the plains of his features as he struggled to see it again. When he did he wished he hadn't.

The shadows hollowed out his cheeks and emptied his eyes, twisting his lips into a sneer and carving harsh angles into his jaw. He looked like someone else.

Someone all too familiar.

He was jolted from the startling, sickening resemblance as he angled his head slightly and the shadows retracted, and all of a sudden he was just a hung over kid again, grimacing at his own reflection. He slumped back onto the bed, trying to escape his pallid appearance.

He laid there for what seemed like days, struggling to smother his emotions and ease back into sleep. The lingering pressure around his head began drilling into his skull and he grimaced at the pain. The dull ticking of his alarm clock filled the room until every tiny click made him flinch.

And as he watched shades of gold and peach seep into the blue-blackness of the sky outside of his balcony, he accepted that there was no way in hell he was getting back to sleep, so he gathered himself up and got out of bed.

He undressed, throwing his clothes into the growing pile occupying the corner of his bathroom, and clambered into his dingy shower. Once the water was flowing, he sunk down onto the floor, resting his throbbing head in his hands and allowing rivulets of hot water to ease the tension from his shoulders.

He went through the rest of his morning wishing he'd stayed there.

After he's washed his hair and shaved, he breathed a sigh of relief when he looked in the mirror and saw himself peering back again. Harsh, stinging spearmint flushed the taste of cigarettes from his mouth, and he got dressed and left the apartment.

And when he emerged onto the street he was long on his way to feeling like Joey Wheeler again.

Updated 9/5/16
Minor changes in sentence structure and spelling.