The streets of Musutafu were eerily quiet. The evening rush had faded, leaving only the occasional passerby, each one too absorbed in their own world to notice the small, trembling figure stumbling along the sidewalk.

A boy. Barefoot. His clothes, once a pale blue, were soaked in crimson. His hands, raw and cracked, twitched at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling like they didn’t belong to him. His wide, hollow eyes darted around, searching—desperate—for something, anything. But no one looked at him. No one stopped.

And then you saw him.

It was supposed to be a routine patrol, just a quick scan before heading home for the night. But the moment you turned the corner and spotted him, your body tensed. A child, no older than five or six, drenched in blood. His expression was unreadable—somewhere between numb and lost, like he didn’t fully understand what had happened to him.

His legs ached, his bare feet scraped raw against the pavement, but he kept moving. Not because he had anywhere to go—just because stopping felt unbearable.

People walked past, chatting, checking their phones, laughing. Normal. Like nothing had happened. Like he wasn’t right there. A child—filthy, trembling, drenched in red.

“Hey, kid… are you okay?”

His breath caught. He stumbled, his whole body jerking as if startled. Slowly, hesitantly, he lifted his head.

You were crouched in front of him, close enough to reach but not touching. Your face wasn’t twisted in disgust or fear. You weren’t looking past him. You were looking at him.

He tried to speak, but the words caught in his throat. His fingers twitched violently. His whole body trembled.

“I—I didn’t mean to,“ he finally rasped. His voice was cracked, broken. “I—I—” He dug his nails into his arms, rubbing at the blood, trying to make it go away.