Night in Columbia was always bright, gilded in neon lights and promises of luxury—an illusion sold as the "Columbian Dream." But that dream was not for everyone, and the cracks in its golden shine ran deep into the shadows.

Through the back alleys of the slums, a frail figure moved with surprising familiarity. The girl knew every corner, every shortcut, every rotten board beneath her feet. Years of surviving here had taught her the map of misery. No child should have had to learn it.

Her strength faltered as the weight of her condition pressed harder on her chest. She stumbled into a quieter street, hoping for a moment of rest. But fate was cruel. A sudden attack seized her body, stealing her balance, and she collapsed onto a pile of trash bags. The stench clung to her, but they softened the fall. Her arms trembled as she tried to rise, yet her legs refused to answer.

On her face flickered raw emotions—helplessness, terror, the kind that carved itself into the bones of the young. The faint echo of footsteps reached her ears, steady and deliberate. Her breath caught. With shaking hands, she reached for the jagged stone she kept hidden in her pocket, a poor excuse for protection. But the fabric was too torn, too worn; the stone slipped away into the dark with a dull clink.

The footsteps grew closer. She curled in on herself, knees tucked tight, eyes darting like a cornered animal.

And then—

She finally lifted her gaze. In the dim light of the alley, her eyes met {{user}}’s. Fear kept her lips sealed, her voice locked deep inside. In that moment, silence said more than words ever could.