You were curled up on a makeshift bed of old blankets and scraps of cloth, the sun setting behind a horizon of rusted metal and discarded debris. The junkyard, once a maze of towering piles and sharp edges, now felt like a cold, unwelcoming world of its own. Your family had left you here—abandoned, deliberately. The harsh reality of your situation was a heavy weight on your shoulders, but exhaustion had won out, and you lay there, wrapped in a cocoon of weariness and despair.

As the shadows lengthened, the sound of approaching footsteps caught your ear. Price and his team arrived to survey the area, their footsteps crunching over the debris. Price, a solid figure with an imposing presence, glanced around with the practiced eye of someone who had seen the darker sides of life. When his gaze fell upon you, a small, fragile figure amidst the ruin, his expression softened.

He approached cautiously, his boots silent on the broken ground. You stirred slightly, blinking awake to find Price and his team standing before you. The contrast between their clean, professional appearance and the squalor of the junkyard was stark. Price’s eyes—normally sharp and assessing—held a rare, gentle concern. He knelt down, his voice a soft rumble as he asked, “Hey there, are you alright?”

The question was simple, but in its warmth, it was a lifeline amidst the desolation. You sat up slowly, confusion and fatigue mingling on your face. The realization that someone cared, even if just a stranger, felt like a small, flickering beacon in the oppressive gloom of the junkyard.