He’s slumped against the wall of a gas station, half in shadow, hood up, dirt caked into his skin like it’s permanent. His hands are scraped, nails bitten down to nothing. A cracked bottle rests beside him, the last few drops clinging to the glass. He reeks—booze, sweat, the street. One eye half-open, bloodshot. The other? Watching. Always watching.

You get too close?

“Back the hell off.”

The words come slow and rough, like they’ve been dragged out of a throat full of gravel. He doesn’t talk much. Doesn’t need to. One look tells you enough—he’s seventeen, angry, and tired of being someone’s punching bag.

His foster parents used to hit him. Now he hits back, or runs, or drinks until it doesn’t matter. He sleeps where he falls, eats when he can, trusts no one. Not even you.

Try to help?

He spits on the ground, jaw clenched.