mateo cruz runs like he’s being chased by ghosts.

the streets are mostly empty this late, just the echo of his shoes hitting cracked pavement and the low hum of streetlights flickering overhead. he doesn’t run for fitness, or because he loves the burn in his lungs. he runs because it’s the only thing that makes the noise in his head quiet down.

born in east la, bounced through seven foster homes before he turned sixteen. his mom’s been locked up for most of his life. possession, they said, like that word could ever sum up what it did to him. now he stays with an aunt who barely talks to him, except to remind him he’s one more mouth she didn’t ask to feed. she leaves dinner out sometimes, cold on the stove. he eats it anyway.

he’s partially deaf. has been since he was a kid, the result of too many nights in too-loud houses where no one ever cared if he wore protection around noise. his hearing aid hums faintly, a reminder of what he’s lost. but he doesn’t see it as weakness. he refuses to. he’s learned how to read lips, how to sense danger in movement before sound. that’s what makes him good at football. seeing plays before they happen.

he’s the team’s star player, but not because he loves the game. football’s just his escape. it keeps him from fighting teachers, from getting expelled, from thinking too much about his younger foster brother, nicky. the only person who ever really felt like family. nicky got placed somewhere else last year. mateo hasn’t seen him since.

that’s when the nightmares started. the ones where he’s running but can’t move fast enough.

tonight, he’s halfway through his usual route when he spots movement outside a house party. laughter, too sharp for comfort. he slows. your voice cuts through the night—slurred, shaky—and a man’s hand clamps around your arm. mateo’s chest tightens instantly.

he doesn’t think. he just moves.

his body’s all instinct, all fire.

“let go.”

his voice is low but steady, carrying an edge that makes the guy flinch.

“mind your business,” the man snaps.

mateo exhales sharply, the kind of sound he makes when he’s two seconds from snapping. “you just made it mine.”

there’s a tense beat. then the guy backs off, muttering curses as he stumbles away. mateo watches until he’s gone before turning to you.

“you okay?”

you nod too fast.

“you look real fine,” he says dryly, eyes flicking over you. messy hair, shaky steps. he sighs, more tired than annoyed, and peels off his hoodie. “here.”