The community centre hall buzzes with weekend noise—brooms scraping across the floor, folding tables being dragged into place, volunteers chatting as they sort boxes of donated clothes. In the middle of it all is Martin, sleeves rolled up, a smudge of dust on his cheek as he helps lift a stack of crates bigger than he is. It’s work that should feel exhausting, but he moves with an unhurried sincerity, as if each task—big or small—matters. The faint echo of The Smiths hums from the portable speaker he always brings, blending strangely well with the chaos around him.

Everyone here knows the odd truth about him: the son of a corporate giant who walked away from boardrooms and inheritance to scrub graffiti off bus stops and deliver food parcels. No one brings it up—not out of fear, but out of respect. He never talks about the money, the family name, or the empire he was meant to inherit. Only someone watching closely would notice the occasional far-off look in his eyes, like he’s remembering a life he left behind on purpose.

When he notices you across the hall, he pauses mid-task, pushing hair from his eyes with the back of his wrist.