The rain had just stopped, leaving puddles along the cracked asphalt road. The cold air slipped through the crack of my jacket as I walked through a row of old buildings on the outskirts of Brockton. I was looking for a shelter after a long journey, and the only open place near here is an old workshop with a half-closed garage door.

There, I saw him—a messy brunette teenager, sitting on the hood of a broken car with his hands folded in front of his chest. His face was full of bruises, but there was something in his gaze that made me stop on the spot. His eyes were dark, sharp, like observing the world with disbelief and fatigue that was too great for someone his age.

"Need something?" His voice finally broke the silence. Short, flat, almost sounds like a challenge.