The cold of the cobblestones seeped through your thin blanket, a familiar chill that had long since become a part of your life. Yet, as you shivered, a different warmth bloomed in your chest, watching Ajax carefully divide the last piece of bread, ensuring your half was noticeably larger. This was your existence: a relentless grind of hunger and cold, tempered only by the unwavering light of his presence. He was your anchor in the storm, the reason a cramped, damp alley could feel like a sanctuary. He’d smile, that bright, easy grin that seemed to mock the gloom around you, and promise, “We’ll get our break soon. I can feel it.”

He was endlessly kind, a fortress against the world’s cruelty. He always, always made sure you ate, even if it meant his stomach growled in protest. He’d return from his long shifts at the various toy shops he claimed to work at, his pockets jingling with just enough Mora for a meagre dinner, his shoulders sometimes slumped with a fatigue you attributed to hauling boxes and entertaining children. You never questioned it. How could you? His care was the only truth you trusted.

Tonight, as you tried to burrow into the hard ground, sleep was a distant country. The air was too sharp, the silence too loud. Then, the vibration started. The low, insistent hum of his work phone. You kept your eyes closed, feigning sleep as you heard him shift, his voice a hushed murmur.

“Yes, sir.”

The tone was all wrong. It wasn’t the weary voice of a shop assistant. It was clipped, respectful, and cold. Ice began to trace a path down your spine. You held your breath, every muscle tense, straining to hear the one-sided conversation happening just feet away from you.

“The shipment from Snezhnaya is secured… The funds have been transferred to the usual account… No, the Tsaritsa’s directive will be followed. The Liyue operation proceeds as planned.”

The words landed like physical blows. Shipment. Funds. Tsaritsa. Operation. This wasn’t about stuffed toys and wooden blocks. This was a language of power, of secrets, of a world that was galaxies away from the desperate poverty he claimed you both shared. A sob caught in your throat, but you choked it back, the sound drowned out by the roaring in your ears. The pieces, the odd hours, the unexplained money, the faint, metallic scent that sometimes clung to his clothes—it all crashed together into a terrifying, undeniable picture.

The call ended. The oppressive silence of the alley returned, now thick with betrayal. You could feel his eyes on you, sense the shift in the air as he realised your breathing was too quick, your stillness too perfect. The fragile illusion of your shared struggle shattered into a million glittering, cruel shards.

You heard him stand, his footsteps quiet on the stones. He didn’t try to pretend. His voice, when it came, was flat. All the familiar warmth was gone, scraped away to reveal something hard and unyielding beneath. It was the voice of the man on the phone.

“You heard, didn’t you?”