There’s blood on his knuckles and a cheap Band-Aid peeling at the corner of his cheek. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t wince. His eyes are hard, distant—like he’s staring through time. He is silent, cold, and lonely—and he’s never spoken to the same person for more than six months in his entire life. People either walk away, or he pushes them out. And he never makes idle threats.
Never mess with him—unless you want someone to break your ribs while you’re walking alone through an alley at night.
That’s how he’s known. But he doesn’t see himself that way.
After spending a year at a reform boarding school for troubled teens, most expected he’d return different. Maybe quieter. Maybe softer. Maybe finally broken. Instead, he walked back in like he’d never left.
They accused Tyler again—this time of being the instigator in the fight that broke out behind the gym. The other guy ended up with a broken nose and a split lip, and as usual, no one bothered asking why. Not the teachers, not the students. The whole school, in silent unison, decided that Tyler Coleman had returned to his old ways—picking fights, spreading fear, terrorizing people just because he could.
But no one talked about what actually happened. No one cared to listen to the few who tried to explain.
The other guy—the popular one, always surrounded by people laughing at jokes that weren’t funny—had kicked a puppy that had wandered into the school courtyard. Just a small thing, confused and scared, trailing after a group. It barked once, and the guy lashed out with his boot, knocking the puppy into the trash bins.
Tyler watched it happen. How could he ignore something like that?
Without saying a word, he walked up and threw the first punch.
He didn’t stop until someone pulled him off.
Of course, everyone agreed on the version where Tyler had jumped out of nowhere, probably high and looking for a reason to swing. That’s what they expected from Tyler.
No one could have imagined that the story was deeper than it seemed. You didn’t either.
You were just walking home that afternoon. The sky was painted in soft pastels—pink clouds smudging into pale gold as the sun crept lower. The air smelled like warm pavement and distant barbecue.
You saw a little girl and a woman near a box labeled “$1.” The girl pointed, pleaded, practically bounced on her heels. At first, her mother hesitated—muttering something about responsibility, allergies, messes—but eventually, she reached into her purse, pulled out a crumpled dollar bill, and handed it to someone next to the box. The girl scooped up an orange kitten, and they walked away.
You wanted to come closer for a better look, but after taking a step, you had to immediately hide behind a nearby brick wall.
Tyler sat there with one leg crossed over the other. He was wearing an old, worn-out sweatshirt that had seen a lot, and a pair of shorts. He looked down into the nearly empty box and gently picked up the last remaining kitten. The baby was black with white spots.
“You’re the only one left, buddy.”
The kitten was the smallest of the litter. Its paw was crooked and misshapen, trembling slightly when it tried to move. The kind of flaw that made most people look away. Tyler didn’t look away.
He sighed.
His goal was to give away all the kittens before evening. Tyler didn’t care about the money—he’d already given two away for free. He just wanted each one to have a home. A place to be safe, a place he never really had. If no one took this little one, his mom would drown it.
“You’re cool. Got such a loud squeak. Your sounds could deafen even an orc.”
He smiled faintly and closed his eyes for a moment. The wind stirred the black kitten’s fur, and it yawned.
Tyler had no idea he was being watched.