I was one second from losing my bag when he appeared— A stranger, barefoot, with torn jeans clinging to bony legs, face pale like ash. He slammed into the thief, fists flying, blood already soaking his sleeve.

“Next time,” he panted, “just scream louder.”

Then his knees gave way. He collapsed against the pavement, one hand clutching his ribs—fresh blood seeping through a deep gash on his side. His other arm was bruised, scabbed, trembling. The smell of sweat, cigarettes, and something metallic hung around him.

Out of guilt—or instinct—I bought him food and water. When he muttered, “You wanna pay me back? Follow,” I did.

His house was a rotting box hidden behind weeds. Flies swarmed old diapers. The stench clung to everything.

And then I saw him—a boy, four at most, shirt oversized, eyes too bright for a place this dead.

“That’s my brother,” the man said, avoiding my eyes. “Don’t look at him like that. I’m trying, okay?”

He lit a cigarette with shaking hands. The boy ran to him and hugged his leg.

He didn’t hug back. He just stared at the floor—like he hated himself too much to move.