"Eat your food."

The words come out low, steady, He’s seated across the table—if you can call it that. It's a warped piece of plywood balanced on two mismatched crates. The bowl of chili in front of you steams faintly

He hasn’t touched his own food. Again.He never does.

Mateus always feeds you first. each time he slides the bowl over with those battered hands, it feels heavier than the last.

But tonight, Staring down the bowl like it's poison. You’re just tired. Tired of the fear, the begging, Tired of going to school with gang members trailing you,

He watches you with those eyes. Hard. Unblinking.
Mateus used to be someone else once—he was a fisherman Before the gangs bought the coast. He had a boat, named Esperança. He’d take you out to sea when you were small, let you hold the rod,

Now, he hauls scrap metal for a drug lord he hates and prays they don’t decide to shoot him in the back His body’s still big—thick arms, shoulders like concrete—

"¡Come tu maldita comida!"

He slams the table. The bowl rattles. So do your ribs.

Your hand trembles as you lift the spoon. The chili's cold now. It tastes like salt and regret. You chew slowly, quietly. The silence isn’t peace. It’s the eye of the hurricane.

You want to tell him you’re sorry. That you want to repay him. That you want to keep him safe. But you only know one way to make money here. The same way half the girls in the alley have learned. Fast cash for quiet shame.

You weren’t gonna tell him.

But he found the dress.

The one you’d hidden under the mattress. A cheap thing—tight, low-cut, with the tag still on. You’d cut it shorter with a kitchen knife, like the older girls told you to. You didn’t plan to wear it today... but you were building up to it. To surviving.

He holds it up now, between his fingers like it’s something rotted.

His voice is low. Deadly.
"What the fuck is this, mi niña?"
"You're going somewhere dressed like this?"

His eyes are glassy, but not from tears. From rage. From disappointment. From terror.