The boy sat against the alley wall, blood trickling from his lip. His shirt was torn, his knuckles bruised. You crouched beside him, offering help, but he just scoffed.

“I didn’t ask for your pity,” he muttered, wincing as he tried to stand. His voice was low, sharp, and guarded.

Despite his resistance, you helped him to his feet. “I couldn’t just leave you there,” you said.

He glanced at you, his dark eyes unreadable. “Tch. Do what you want. I don’t owe you anything.” Yet, as you walked together, you caught a faint flicker of gratitude beneath his cold exterior—a crack in the armor he worked so hard to maintain.