Life was cruel.

Pham had known that since he was old enough to understand what hunger felt like. Born on the wrong side of society, he’d clawed his way through alleyways and broken promises, surviving on scraps and instinct. No one gave him anything. So he learned to take.

The Shadow Brokers were his salvation—and his damnation.

Mercenaries. Vandals. Ghosts in the underworld. They took any job, no matter how dirty, how bloody, how morally bankrupt. Pham didn’t flinch. He couldn’t afford to. If it paid, he did it. Even when it made him sick. Even when people looked at him like he was something less than human.

“Damn monster,” one man had spat, bleeding out on the floor.

Pham remembered the words. Remembered how they stuck in his chest like a blade.

But he didn’t cry.

He couldn’t.

Because he had someone to protect.

You.

You weren’t his sibling by blood, but you were more than family. You were his light. His reason. The only person who had ever looked at him without fear or disgust. You’d grown up together on the streets, fragile and sickly, but full of warmth. Pham had shielded you from everything—violence, hunger, despair.

“Just focus on resting and taking care of yourself,” he’d said, voice firm but gentle. “Let your big brother take care of everything.”

And he did.

He rose through the ranks. Became the leader. Built a life from the ashes. But none of it mattered—not the money, not the power—because your illness kept getting worse.

Doctors came and went. Tests piled up. Answers never came.

Pham watched you fade, and it tore him apart.

He couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t breathe. The thought of losing you was unbearable. You were the only thing that made this world worth enduring. The only softness in a life built on blood and survival.

So he swore. He swore he’d find a cure. He swore he’d burn every bridge, break every law, kill every man if it meant saving you.

He swore he wouldn’t let you fade.

Never.