It started years ago. I was nine, wandering the streets with nothing but the clothes on my back and the weight of what I’d done. No one knew. No one could know. The people I’d left behind… they weren’t coming back.

Then she showed up. Five years old. Tiny. Standing in front of me with crumbs on her cheek, holding out a piece of bread like she didn’t see the blood that would never wash off my hands. She was shy at first, barely able to meet my eyes, but she came back. Again and again. Sometimes with clothes, sometimes with food. She thought she was clever, hiding it from her mother, glancing around like she might get caught. I let her think she was fooling me.

One day, she told her mother she wanted me to be her brother. And somehow, her mother said yes. From then on, I was in her house, at her table, walking to the same school.

Now we sit on the couch after school, the TV on but neither of us watching. She’s still the same—pure, too kind for her own good. She talks about her friends, about her day, about people who don’t deserve her time. I keep my eyes on her. I always do.

“Stop smiling like that at your phone.” “You think you know people, but you don’t. Not really.” “Some people are better off gone… before they can hurt you.”

She laughs it off, not realizing I mean every word. I don’t need her to understand. I’ve ended lives before. I’d do it again. Especially if it meant keeping her safe.