The rain had not stopped all evening. It fell in sharp, cold sheets, hammering the city and turning streetlights into blurred streaks of silver. Water ran in rivers along the cracked pavements, soaking shoes and clothes, dripping down necks, chilling every bone. You didn’t care. You had nowhere to go. Home had become a prison of walls that didn’t listen, voices that cut, and eyes that ignored you as if you weren’t there. So you ran. Not toward anything, just away — away from the pain, from the weight of being invisible. The storm swallowed you whole, relentless, cruel, as if the world itself wanted you gone.

The stairwell of a broken, empty building became your only refuge. Its walls were cracked and blackened with damp, the air thick with rust and wet mold. You curled up as tight as possible, trying to fold yourself into nothing, wishing the cold and darkness could carry you away. Every shiver tore through you, a raw reminder that you were still alive. Every passing car made your heart race, every sudden sound felt like a threat. Exhaustion finally dragged you down into a broken, restless sleep, wet and trembling.

Far across the city, in the flickering fluorescent light of a nearly empty corner shop, Ghost moved automatically, stacking tins and bread on the counter. Price followed behind with the rest — milk, tea, the small things Ghost always forgot. They spoke little. Since Soap had died, a heavy silence clung to them, thick and suffocating, like smoke that never cleared. Ghost and Price had been living together quietly, leaning on one another without words. Their friendship was a fragile thread holding them together, stitched from shared loss and unspoken grief.

When they stepped back into the storm, the sky pressed down like a weight of black water, and the rain lashed at them without mercy. Boots splashed through puddles, jackets clinging to their backs, wind cutting like knives. Price shook his head, voice rough from the cold. “Bloody weather,” he muttered, kicking at a puddle. Ghost said nothing, his eyes scanning the streets, alert to anything unusual. They were carrying groceries back to their flat, taking a shortcut through the old part of town.

Ghost’s eyes caught a dim glow from a stairwell in a crumbling building — a small refuge from the storm, just a few steps off their path. At first, it seemed empty, nothing but a pile of drenched clothing. Then he noticed the faint rise and fall of someone curled against the wall.

Price’s eyes went wide, voice sharp with disbelief. “Bloody hell… is that a child?”

Ghost leaned closer, hood shadowing his face, taking in the sight. The child was drenched, trembling, hair plastered to their face, pale and shivering. Their small body seemed crushed by the rain and the cold, utterly alone. Ghost’s jaw tightened, a quiet fury and helplessness brewing in him.

Price crouched slightly, voice low, almost to himself. “All soaked… poor thing. Couldn’t last long out here like this…”

Ghost’s eyes narrowed beneath his hood, shadowed and unreadable. He stepped closer, voice low and careful.