"You can start working now."
The Goldlock didn’t bother answering the rookie woman’s frantic questions. Instead, one of the veteran harvesters, moving with practiced efficiency, ignored the Gloomcrawlers entirely. He bolted toward the nearby jeep, popped the trunk, and dragged out four folding chairs.
The four Duskwardens offered easy smiles, taking their seats as the veteran set them up. They immediately slid into casual chatter, looking more like tourists on a weekend outing than guards in a deadly exclusion zone.
"We didn't pay for you to stand around like statues," grumbled the man who had first identified the Gloomcrawlers. He didn't look back as he spoke, but the warning was unmistakably aimed at the three rookies. "Fail to meet the quota, and you won't see a single cent."
Ethan Kane offered a quiet nod. "Thanks."
If a little courtesy could build a bridge with an experienced hand, it was worth the effort.
The veteran scoffed, not even bothering to look back. "Waste of breath." He marched off toward a less crowded patch, squatted down, and immediately got to work.
His movements were fluid and practiced. Slipping a small trowel from his pack, he gently loosened the damp soil around a Gloomcrawler, extracting the entire specimen in one clean motion. It was a stark contrast to the barren dirt from ten minutes ago; already, the dark ground was choked with dense clusters of these fleshy, pitch-black mushrooms.
Rather than rushing in, Ethan hung back, studying the veterans' techniques and their demeanor. Nearby, another rookie—panicked by the ticking clock—plunged onto the dirt and violently yanked a Gloomcrawler free. Several veterans exchanged mocking smirks.
It wasn't just amusement at a novice's clumsiness. Ethan narrowed his eyes, catching the crucial detail: the rookie's mushroom had snapped, leaving the root behind. The veterans, however, unearthed theirs intact. A broken root likely meant a rejected harvest.
In a world where survival supplanted living, compassion was a luxury no one could afford. Perhaps watching those worse off fail was the only entertainment these miserable souls had left. Or maybe they had simply survived long enough to watch others repeat the same mistakes they once made. Ethan glanced at the four Duskwardens; they, too, were whispering and snickering behind their hands, pointing at the struggling rookie.
His suspicion was confirmed.
"Hey," Ethan muttered, leaning toward the rookie woman who was frantically clawing at the dirt nearby. "I think you need to harvest them whole. Don't break the roots."
The woman, her nerves frayed to the breaking point, paused with her hand wrapped tightly around a stalk. She looked up, eyes wide and bewildered. But gratitude never came.
"Aren't you a first-timer too?" she snapped, her voice laced with defensive hostility. "How would you know what they want?"
Only three rookies had made the cut tonight; she knew exactly who he was. Had a veteran offered the advice, she would have bowed in thanks. But a fellow rookie? Who was he to lecture her?
Ethan stared at her for a beat, then turned away without a word. He had offered his warning. That was the limit of his charity.
Shifting toward the center of the illuminated zone, Ethan crouched down to try his hand.
The cynical veteran who had warned them earlier watched him, tossing another pristine mushroom into his sack. "Look at the fucking saint," the man muttered, his tone dripping with sheer contempt.
Ignorance was bliss, but Ethan focused on the cold reality beneath his fingers. He pried his first Gloomcrawler from the earth. The thing felt slick and freezing, like a melting ice cube disguised as a fungus. He had no idea what they were actually used for. Food? Who in their right mind would eat something birthed from the abyssal dark of night? Besides, organizing an armed escort just to gather cheap calories made no sense. Now, The Goldlock’s warning about curiosity echoed in his mind with chilling clarity.
Forty minutes crawled by. Ethan had managed only three intact specimens. His clumsy technique was partly to blame, but the real distractor was the oppressive, suffocating dark pressing against the perimeter of the Glowrig's light. There was a reason he had claimed a spot near the center. The primal human dread of the dark was hardwired into his bones, even on a night as quiet as this.
Then, it happened.
The edge of his vision caught a ripple in the pitch-black void. It was a subtle, vertical shudder, like a silent wave rising from the earth. The distortion was faint, gone in a heartbeat, but it was enough to make the hair on his arms stand up.
"Report!" Ethan blurted out, pointing an outstretched finger toward the shifting dark. He didn't even realize he had spoken until the word left his lips.
Before he could explain, The Goldlock’s brow furrowed. "Keep your head down and do your job. Remember the rules?"
The third rule flashed in Ethan's mind, and he instantly shut his mouth. To a rookie, every shadow was a monster. To the Duskwardens, it was just Tuesday. Fortunately, though the darkness rippled and shifted throughout the night, nothing crossed the threshold of the light.
By six in the morning, the first pale rays of dawn cracked the horizon. Ethan collapsed onto the dirt, his undershirt soaked through with cold sweat and grime. Around him, the other harvesters lay sprawled out, too exhausted to care about dignity.
The Gloomcrawlers were gone, and as the morning light touched the ground, the freshly turned soil and dug-up patches vanished as if swallowed by the day itself. Only the heavy crates stacked in the back of the military truck proved the night wasn't a fever dream.
The Duskwardens called for eight volunteers to dismantle the Glowrigs. Ethan, his limbs heavy as lead, hesitated too long and missed the chance for extra coin. Still, the promise of eight hundred credits was enough. He climbed back into the truck, collapsing against the metal frame. The ride back to Northridge was silent, filled with the stench of sweat and exhaustion. Soon, they would get paid and go home.
"Sharp eyes you've got there," a voice grunted next to him.
Ethan blinked, realizing Flint Voss—the veteran who had spoken to him at the plaza yesterday—had taken the seat beside him. "You want to work with me?"
The offer was blunt, but Ethan hesitated. From what he'd seen, Nightharvesting was a solitary, desperate gamble. Why would anyone want to form a crew?
"That girl over there? She'll be lucky to take home two hundred credits today," Flint said, sparking a cigarette and inhaling deeply. "Your instincts were dead on. Broken Gloomcrawlers are worthless garbage."
Ethan frowned. He knew he was right, but one thing bothered him. "Why didn't the Duskwardens warn her? Isn't the whole point of this operation to harvest as many intact ones as possible?"
Flint laughed, a dry, wheezing sound. "You think they actually need all these mushrooms?" He leaned his head back against the seat, blowing a stream of gray smoke toward the ceiling. "It's just a dinner party. Who the hell can eat this much fungus?"
Ethan froze.
"Ah, right, you probably don't know why Lumcores spiked in price lately, do you?" Flint shot him a mocking, knowing grin. "Our esteemed mayor's darling daughter is celebrating her birthday today. The little princess is throwing a grand gala tonight. A gala... just imagine the sheer volume of Lumcores they'll burn through to keep the venue lit."
Ethan sat rigid, staring at Flint's smirk.
The soaring price of Lumcores. The birthday gala. He had run through dozens of conspiracy theories in his head, but this ridiculous reality had never crossed his mind. He looked over at the crates of Gloomcrawlers, the rhythmic snoring of exhausted harvesters filling the cabin.
So, they really were just food.
"These things only stay fresh for twenty-four hours," Flint continued, tapping ash onto the floor. "Once that window closes, they turn rancid. Even wild dogs won't touch them. The high society guest list isn't that long anyway. Ninety percent of what we dug up tonight is going straight into the incinerator."
"Then... why gather so many?" Ethan asked, his mind reeling. A bitter, suffocating weight pressed down on his chest.
"You really aren't listening, are you?" Flint tossed his cigarette butt and crushed it beneath his boot. "Because Lumcore prices went up!"
Ethan's chest tightened. Rising Lumcore prices meant the poor were being pushed to the brink of starvation. Desperate people did desperate things. And Nightharvesting was a death sentence reserved only for those with no other choice. If they only harvested what was actually needed, they wouldn't have hired half this crowd. This massive, wasteful harvest wasn't about the mushrooms at all. It was the mayor throwing a bone to the starving class—a cruel charity to keep them from rioting when the utility bills arrived.
"Hahaha!" Flint roared, slapping Ethan on the shoulder. "That's the face of a man who just opened his eyes! Don't worry, kid. You see enough of this shit, you get used to it."
Flint’s booming laughter drew a few tired glares from around the truck. Looking at their hollow, indifferent faces, Ethan realized many of them already knew. But what could they do? The price of Lumcores wasn't going down, and the night remained cold and hungry. They needed the work, even if it was a farce.
"So, back to my question," Flint said, leaning in. "You want in?"
Ethan tried to process the grim machinery of the city. "What's in it for me?"
"I like a guy who gets straight to the point," Flint grinned. "We've got our own group. The Harvesters' Union."
"The Harvesters' Union?" Ethan repeated. Another term he'd never heard in the slums.
"Fewer than twenty of us. See that kid over there?" Flint gestured with his chin toward the cynical young man who had warned Ethan earlier, now fast asleep against the wall. "He's one of ours. You know there are eleven Nightharvest assembly points across Northridge, right?"
Ethan kept quiet. Honestly, he only knew about the one at Central Square.
"Every assembly point has different runs each night," Flint whispered, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "Tonight was a milk run. Low risk, easy labor, high survival rate. But if you think Nightharvest is always this cozy, you'll be dead by next week. Join us, and we get advance intel on which sites are high-risk before the daily postings."
Ethan’s pulse quickened. Advance warning on the danger levels? That was practically a cheat code for survival. It allowed them to dodge the meat grinders entirely. But as tempting as it sounded, Ethan kept his head cool. If the benefits were so clear-cut, why was their group so small?
"In exchange, the Union takes a fifty percent cut of your nightly earnings," Flint added smoothly.
There it was. The catch. Everyone sitting in this truck was here because they were flat broke. Taking half their pay was like ripping the skin off their backs. Besides, who was to say the 'intel' was even real? The Union could easily make up some safe-sounding location, pocket half the earnings, and if someone died, they wouldn't have to refund a ghost. It was a perfect, blood-soaked racket.
And yet... what if the info was genuine? Even knowing the risks of the scam, the allure of survival was intoxicating.
"Can I think about it?" Ethan asked.
"Sure," Flint chuckled. "Tell you what, I'll even throw in a freebie to show good faith." He leaned closer, hot breath smelling of cheap tobacco. "If you're heading back out tonight, steer clear of Central Square. Go to the Westside Processing Plant instead. Much safer. I'll be heading there myself." He offered a heavy wink.
"Thanks, Flint. I appreciate it."
"Save the formalities. Just call me Flint. No need to treat me like some ancient relic, though I'm old enough to be your old man."
"Thanks, Flint."
"Don't sweat it."
The truck finally rumbled back into Central Square. The workers poured out like ghosts, dragging their exhausted bodies toward the payment line, their dead eyes suddenly burning with desperate hope.
The Goldlock stood by the vehicle, a thick stack of bills gripped tightly in his hand. The harvesters lined up with submissive precision. Even though they had risked their lives for this money, each man and woman bowed and scraped as they received their share, thanking the blonde leader as if he were a merciful god.
When Ethan finally reached the front, The Goldlock raised an eyebrow, sizing him up.
"First time?"
"Yeah," Ethan managed, his face feeling like stone. He tried to force a polite smile, but his facial muscles refused to cooperate.
"Not bad," The Goldlock said, sliding a few crisp bills off the stack and slapping them into Ethan's palm. "You're a natural for the night shift."
Ethan's hand hovered in the air. With Flint's revelation fresh in his mind, the compliment sounded less like praise and more like a cruel joke. Seeing him hesitate, The Goldlock shoved the cash into Ethan's fingers and looked right past him.
"Next!"
"Thanks," Ethan muttered, snapping out of his daze. He stepped aside and counted the bills.
His stomach sank.
"Wait..." Ethan turned back, holding out the money. Seven bills. Seven hundred credits.
The Goldlock looked at him, an amused glint in his eyes. "Go look at what the other rookies are taking home today. You'll realize I actually did you a favor."
The blonde leader knew exactly what he was doing. He had counted the bills himself.
Ethan stood frozen. He knew his yield was lower than the veterans, but... if most of the harvest was going straight into an incinerator anyway, why squeeze him out of a hundred credits? He hadn't slacked off.
But he kept his mouth shut. Demanding a fair share from a Duskwarden was a quick way to end up in a ditch.
As Ethan walked toward the exit of the square, a woman's screech cut through the morning air.
"What do you mean?! Why only a hundred?!" It was the rookie woman from earlier. "I worked just as hard as everyone else! You promised eight hundred! Without this, I can't afford the Lumcores! How am I supposed to keep my son alive? Please, just give me six hundred—"
Ethan didn't look back. He had no strength to carry someone else's burden, and he certainly didn't have the stomach to watch the tragedy play out. He had warned her, and she had thrown it back in his face.
A sharp, echoing bang shattered the quiet morning.
Ethan froze dead in his tracks.