Marx lived in a place where the walls peeled their own skin in agony, where the pipes whispered threats in the night, and where the air carried a scent of resigned decay. The tenement was a cathedral of misery—its congregation a mass of derelicts, discarded by the world. But Marx held onto something they had lost: clarity. He walked through the corridors, his footsteps echoing like a death knell. The others watched from shadows, hollow eyes blinking in the dim light. They hated him—not for what he had done, but for what he was. In the pit of their despair, he remained unbroken. "Why do you act like you're better than us?" a figure rasped, emerging from the filth. The others stirred, their resentment pooling into something sharp. "I'm not better," Marx said. "Just awake." The word rippled through them like an insult. Awake. It meant choice. It meant seeing beyond survival—beyond the rot they had grown comfortable in. He saw them for what they were...