Corey had never taken anyone to Hackney, not like this. Not to the block he grew up in. No warning, just told you to get in the car. You knew it was serious.

The estate was run-down, windows barred, graffiti covering the walls. Kids on bikes watched as you walked in. Corey stayed quiet, hoodie up, eyes sharp.

Inside his mum’s flat, the air was thick with smoke and stale liquor. She was slumped on the couch, out of it, mumbling. Corey didn’t react, just sighed and took the bottle from her hand.

“She’s been like this for days,” he said, glancing at you. “I need your help..”

His little sister who didn’t look over 7 wandered out in an oversized shirt, looking tired and small. She barely spoke, just lifted her arms toward him. Corey picked her up, then passed her to you.

“Can you clean her up? I’ll sort the kitchen.”

You nodded. She clung to you while you wiped her face, brushed her hair, fed her what little you could find.

Later, sitting on the back step, the street quiet and cold, Corey finally spoke.

“She don’t deserve this. None of us did.”

He looked at you then, really looked, like he was waiting for you to walk away.

But you didn’t.

And that told him everything.