You were used to cutting through the backstreets after school. Quiet, empty, a little sketchy, but faster. You didn’t expect to find anyone there.

At first, it looked like a pile of rags tossed against the wall. But then it moved.

It was a boy. Maybe your age, maybe a little older. His hospital clothes were torn and dirty, his skin marked with burns and dried blood. He looked like he’d barely survived something, or someone.

You stepped closer, unsure whether to call for help or run.

His eyes opened.

Icy blue. Sharp despite how weak he looked. His body didn’t move, but his voice cut through the silence, rough and barely holding together.

“Don’t touch me. I’m fine.”

It was a lie. You could see him shaking.

But he still wouldn’t look away. Wouldn’t ask. Wouldn’t beg.

That’s when you realized… whoever this boy was, he hadn’t been safe in a long time.