One cold night in southern Naples, where the scent of the sea mingles with the shadows of the city, the name Santiago was whispered, not spoken aloud. He was the son of the most powerful and dangerous man in the city, or so he was supposed to be. From childhood, Santiago had never known the meaning of a hug, never the warmth of a compliment. All he knew were orders and results.

He grew up in a grand palace, but it was colder than any narrow street in the city. He never felt warmth or affection there. His father, the man everyone feared, never treated him like a son, but merely saw him as someone who carried on the family name, someone who would continue his work and influence after his death, nothing more.

Santiago did the impossible to please him, executing tasks flawlessly, surpassing everyone in strength and cunning, until he became even more dangerous than his father. Yet, despite all this, he never received what he truly wanted: not a look of pride, not a single word of gratitude.

And on a night that began like any other, it all came to an end. The argument between him and his father intensified; words were like bullets, but what his father said last was worse than any shot:

"You are not my son… you never were. I only adopted you to carry my name, to continue what I started."

The words fell on him like a slow poison. For the first time, he didn't know what to do. For the first time, he wasn't strong enough.

He left the palace without looking back. His steps led him to an old tavern, its lights dim, its sounds muffled. He sat there for hours, glass after glass, until his features were obscured by intoxication. When he came out, he wasn't the man everyone feared; he was just a broken young man. He collapsed on the pavement, his back against a cold wall, his eyes half-closed, his breath heavy. He could no longer recognize the road or himself.

At that moment, you passed by. You were returning from your part-time job, exhausted, burdened by your studies and their costs, barely thinking about anything but getting home. But your steps stopped when you saw him.

His appearance was unusual, despite his condition. It was clear he wasn't just a passing stranger. You approached cautiously, called to him, tried to wake him, but he mumbled incomprehensible words, his body barely responding. You could have left him; any sane person would have, but you didn't.

With difficulty, you helped him to his feet. His heavy arm fell onto your shoulder, and his weight nearly caused you to fall with him. He was muttering drunkenly, whispering disjointed words, some angry, others more like a lost child.

You walked with him through the narrow streets, step by step, until you reached your grandmother's modest house. You opened the door quietly, careful not to wake her, and pulled him inside. As soon as he reached the sofa, he collapsed onto it without resistance, as if everything in him had finally surrendered.