I know this doesn’t fit the prompt but it’s something I’m trying to turn into a dystopian novel and would love feedback on!

“I knew you were trouble,” I mutter as we make our way through the dark alley of Eight, slimy liquid seeping off the sides of the aged brick buildings. I step around the puddles, flinching at the putrid smell. The chances of us being caught aren’t high, but if we were then we should count our lucky stars.

“What can I say?” Ethan chortles, holding out his arms in mock pride. “I’m the master.” Even though it’s nearly pitch black I can just imagine the smug grin on his face. I lower my dim torch just enough to watch him step in a puddle of whatever that nasty alley muck is.

I snort, looking down at his wet feet. “Okay, Master. Did your royal smartness know that you just stepped in a puddle?” He squeaks and rips off his worn shoe, examining the bottom.

“Seriously! These are my only pair,” he whines, holding up his ruined shoes. It’s not uncommon for us to have a lack of material. When you’re a Ten, the lowest of low, you lack a lot of things. Most of the people here don’t get enough to eat each day. Which is why we are out in the land of Eight, a tiny little area just northern of us that constantly has an odor from the factories.

Most of us Tens work in these factories when we come of age. It’s not a horrible job, but the repetition gets dreadful quick. We make items for the Ones and Twos - the rich and the powerful. The too-lazy-to-make-it-themselves.

“Look at us,” Ethan rants, already forgotten about his shoes and interrupting my train of thought. “Sneaking into Eight after curfew! Mari, we’ve gotten so far from those measly little kids afraid to knick a coin from a pocket.”

“Oh yeah, we’re totally rebels,” I say sarcastically, kicking a smooth white stone, a little brightness in the dark. My gaze tracks it until it disappears out of sight and around the corner of the rotting building that the eights surely do not have enough money to repair.

A frigid wind soars toward us, digging it’s icy claws into our skin. I scoot over to Ethan and hold the torch closer. The wind is unbearable, slicing at our faces and putting out the torch.

“Dammit,” I whisper, blowing lightly on the torch. Come on, come on. This was our last bit of heat. No one lasts long in Eight, with its constant wintry state.

“We have to go back,” Ethan says, his tone discouraging. “It’s too cold.”

“We’re not going back,” I retort harshly, my mood dampened by the ebony torch. “This was your idea, and Ten has no food. We came here for a reason and we’re going to get it done whether you like it or not.” I shove the torch at him and stalk further down the alley.

We came here for food, and I have no intention of leaving without it.