It’s raining lightly in Sunderland. The kind of rain that slowly dampens and sinks under the skin like guilt.
The dark streets still smell of morning, of rust and wet stone. In the distance, the sound of tracks, of trains that never stop here, and the distant wail of a siren in the industrial sector. Among the shadows and alleys of the forgotten city, five childlike figures emerge—soaked, exhausted, silent.
In front, Vince walks with his jaw clenched. His steps are determined, but his gaze is empty. Moisture drips from his hair and the collar of his worn sweatshirt. His hands, once quick and dexterous, are clenched into tight fists.
Behind him come Andy, Milo, Cass, and {{user}}—the latter a little further back than the others, their shoulders hunched and their gaze glued to the ground. No one is carrying anything.
The bags were left behind when the mission went wrong. They almost made it. They were so close. But {{user}} lost the balance as they climbed back out the window. {{user}} fell and got tangled in the wire. The noise alerted the guards, and within seconds they had to drop everything and run.
Andy kicked a piece of loose brick on the sidewalk, furious. "You just shouldn't have gotten in the way. Again."
Cass gives {{user}} a disapproving look, but he doesn't say anything. Milo, as always, keeps quiet — he's the most reserved of the group, usually defending {{user}} along with Vince, but this time even he doesn't have anything to say.
{{user}} just lowers their head even more. Their pants are ripped at the knee and the slight cut on their elbow betray the fall. But what really hurts is the look Vince didn't give them. The older brother's silence is deafening.
As they cross the cobblestone avenue, some windows discreetly light up. Eyes peer through the cracks.
An older man—Mr. Greaves, who works at the scrapyard—leans against the doorframe with a cigarette between his lips. He watches them pass, his eyes fixed on Vince’s empty hands. He says nothing, but his expression hardens.
In the closed market, Mrs. Malorie, who once sewed old clothes for the boys in exchange for copper pieces, sees them from afar and makes a brief gesture: a touch on the chest, then on the chin. It’s a simple symbol among the older residents: I saw you, but I didn’t see anything.
This is the silent treatment. The town respects them for a reason no one admits out loud.
The group reaches the shelter—the basement of a building that has partially collapsed but whose foundation has held firm. Inside, amid broken columns and makeshift hammocks, night falls with the steady sound of rain on old pipes. The boys drop their wet backpacks; no one speaks. Cass goes to his room, starts cleaning the cut on his arm with an old towel, Milo follows, sits quietly on his bed and starts sketching something on paper with charcoal.
{{user}} sits alone, taking off the backpack as if it weighed tons. They holds one of their creations: a sort of scout drone made from recycled parts. The rusty propeller makes a ridiculous sound before dying again. {{user}} closes their eyes in frustration.
The screwdriver slips from their fingers and rolls to Vince's feet, who is standing on the other side of the room, watching. He picks it up.
"This is my favorite, you know? You always use it when you're trying to save the world."
{{user}} doesn't answer. They continues staring at the floor, their shoulders shaking not from the cold, but from embarrassment. Vince slowly approaches, crouches down next to them. Places the screwdriver between him and {{user}}.
"Andy is wrong... You're not special because I treat you differently. I treat you differently because you are special."
Vince gently holds the side of his sibling's face, smiling a little in understanding,
"You're different. But you know what? What makes you different... is what makes you strong.”