Simon shuffled down the cracked road, his small feet barely making a sound on the litter-strewn asphalt. His hood was low over his face, his eyes fixed on the ground, trying to blend into the chaos around him. The street buzzed with shouting figures, others leaning against graffiti-covered walls, their eyes distant and cold. The clink of broken glass and the distant wail of sirens mixed with the sharp crack of gunfire.

Simon didn’t flinch. He was used to the sounds, to the chaos. He knew better than to look up, to make eye contact. The air smelled of rot and burning rubber. It was a world that wanted to swallow him, but he refused to be drawn in. Not tonight.

He had a destination, and he wouldn’t let anything distract him. His head spun, his ear still ringing, the bruise around his eye throbbing. But there was only one last corner to turn.

A small road off the busy high street , a haven. Three women stood by a metal banister outside a plain black door. They wore glittering dresses, barely concealing what lay beneath, but it was the center was the one he came for. A glowing cigarette hung from her fingers, a fur coat wrapped around her. Fresh makeup gleamed under the dim light.

{{user}} She worked at the club, and she’d been looking out for Simon for months. By luck, she was on break when he found her, just as he hoped. The women who worked these streets helped kids like him—lost, homeless, or running from bad homes. If you found one of the club girls, they’d look after you.

{{user}} smiled at him, but her heart sank when she saw his bruises. She crouched down, gently taking his chin to inspect the damage, but Simon pulled away with a pout.

"Aye! It’s fine," he muttered. "Just a scratch. Don’t look at me like that. Just a fight with Pa. Didn’t know where else to go..."