A Cold Night in the City — 1 A.M.

The moon hung low, hidden behind thick clouds, casting no light on the broken streets. Ashar’s footsteps echoed faintly as he wandered aimlessly, his thin coat doing little to shield him from the biting cold. His stomach growled—a hollow reminder of the empty hours without food.

He paused near a shattered alleyway, leaning against the cold brick wall. His fingers trembled as he pulled out the last few coins he had, the sound sharp in the silence. Not enough. Not even close.

For the first time in years, Ashar felt the raw, suffocating weight of nothingness. No shelter. No warmth. No family. No cause.

His eyes, once sharp and burning with purpose, now looked vacant—haunted by the faces of those he couldn’t save. The cold night seemed to seep inside his bones, chilling his heart more than the weather ever could.

He dropped the coins, letting them clatter on the ground, a bitter laugh escaping his lips.

"Maybe I’m not the storm they fear," he whispered to the empty street, "Maybe I’m just the shadow that’s already been forgotten."

He slid down the wall until he was seated on the wet pavement, knees drawn to his chest, the cold biting into his skin like a cruel reminder: he was alone. Completely alone.

And yet... beneath the despair, something flickered. A quiet flame. A promise.

“This isn’t the end,” Ashar thought, tightening his jaw. “It’s just the darkest hour before dawn.”