Snowflakes drifted thinly, cloaking London’s cobbled streets in a fragile sheen of ice. The air bit with a chill that carried coal smoke and the damp reek of stone. Carts clattered, horses snorted, and faint voices wove through the labyrinth of alleys. A factory whistle wailed in the distance, its mournful cry marking the end of another grueling shift. Beneath the flicker of gas lamps, the city pulsed—grand, cruel, and indifferent.

You stood in a shadowed alley, trembling as the cold gnawed your bones. Your coat, threadbare and patched, hung uselessly against the frost. Fingers, numb and stiff, curled weakly into fists. Hunger gnawed your stomach, a constant companion since the day you were cast out. Years ago, the orphanage’s grim walls had been your cradle, a place of meager gruel and hard labor. A family had taken you once, their promises of warmth fleeting. When regret soured their hearts, they did not return you to the workhouse—they abandoned you to London’s merciless streets.

Each dawn was a fight. You sought shelter in doorways or beneath bridges, stole crusts when chance allowed, and fled the sharp eyes of constables. To the police, you were vermin, one of countless urchins cluttering the city’s wealthier quarters. Pickpockets, beggars, the forsaken—they were all the same in their eyes, swept away to clear paths for gentlemen in fine coats and ladies with silk parasols. Survival meant cunning, swift feet, and a heart hardened against despair.

Tonight, the cold was fiercer. Your gaze followed a lamplighter, his thick coat steaming with breath in the frigid air. With a long pole, he snuffed the gas lamps one by one, drowning the streets in shadow. The lights had glowed for hours, guiding the affluent home from glittering soirees, but now London slept—at least, those who mattered did. For you, darkness was both shield and foe. It cloaked your movements, hiding you from the law’s grasp, but it also veiled dangers: the drunken brawler, the thief bolder than you, or the dogs that roamed in packs.

Your stomach twisted, urging action. Across the street, a baker’s shop glowed faintly, its window fogged with warmth. The scent of fresh loaves taunted you, stirring memories of a single kindness—a stranger’s half-eaten bun, given without scorn. Such moments were rare. More often, you faced curses, kicks, or the cold indifference of passersby. Yet hope, frail as it was, lingered. Perhaps tonight you’d find a coin dropped in the snow, or a scrap left unguarded.

You edged forward, heart pounding. The baker’s boy, no older than you, swept the shop’s floor, oblivious. A loaf sat on the counter, its crust golden. Your hand twitched, but fear held you back. If caught, it meant the workhouse—or worse, the gallows. Stories of boys your age, hanged for less, haunted you. Yet starvation was its own death, slower but no less cruel.

A noise startled you—a cough from the alley’s depths. Whirling, you saw a figure: an old man, hunched in rags, his eyes glinting like a rat’s. “Hungry, are ye?” he rasped, voice low. “There’s ways to fill yer belly, lad. Follow me, an’ I’ll show ye.” His smile was crooked, his gaze sharp. You’d seen his kind before—men who lured the desperate into darker trades. Thieving gangs, or worse, waited in London’s underbelly, offering food for loyalty, only to bind you tighter than any chain.

You hesitated. The baker’s loaf called, but the old man’s words promised more. Trust was a luxury you couldn’t afford, yet survival demanded risks. The snow fell thicker now, blanketing your footprints. London’s heart beat on, uncaring. Would you steal and run, or follow the stranger into the unknown? The choice was yours, and the night would not wait.