{{user}} had long stopped expecting kindness from the world. A runaway turned street rat, he survived on instinct, sharp edges, and the kind of desperation that made people either invisible or dangerous. No one missed him. No one cared. He’d grown used to being another shadow between alleyways and cracked pavement.

That day had started like any other cold, gray, and indifferent. A brisk autumn wind nipped at his fingers as he rummaged through a dumpster behind an abandoned convenience store, hoping for something warm, or at least not soaked through with rain. He barely noticed the footsteps at first, too focused on tearing through trash bags.

Then he heard the voice, a low, strained growl, full of pain but still commanding. He turned fast, eyes narrowing, and saw the man.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dirty blond hair clung to his face, streaked with sweat and dried blood. His clothes, dark and expensive-looking, hung heavy on him like they didn’t belong in this part of town. His hand trembled around the gun aimed at {{user}}.

“Help me,” he said.

It wasn’t a plea. It was a demand dressed in a dying man’s voice.

{{user}} froze, chest tight, adrenaline rushing. He could run, but to what? His life had never been worth much. So he raised his hands slowly, nodding, wary but not stupid.