The only thing Kris has ever known is the routine.

It’s a tedious schedule, but it’s his whole life. Awake by dawn, stirred to his feet by soft rays of sun peeking through homemade curtains. Scrubbing his skin raw under frigid water and struggling with the same outfit he’s worn for over ten years; navy blue long sleeve shirt with a jacket for warmth in the colder moths, dark gray pants with slight tears around the knees, sturdy black work boots with just a few scuffs. It’s not his ideal choice of clothing, but it’s required. He musses with his hair, pokes at his reflection to waste a few moments, and makes his bed. Simple, mindless tasks.

Then comes a short breakfast, usually something simple like rice or eggs with a bit of toast. Kris chokes down the tasteless food with a bit of water, greets a few of the others in his dorm with a simple hello, and heads out to work. It’s a bland lifestyle, but how can he complain when it’s the only one he’s got?

Besides, it’s all part of the routine, and the routine is not to be messed with. That’s the first and most important rule taught when it comes to living in the Town.

But apparently, that rule didn’t apply to Huang Zitao.