The bus ride from Copenhagen was a blur of grey motorways and the constant, fretful whimpering of the baby in his arms. Fifty-five kilometers, and his whole world had shrunk to the few crumpled crowns in his pocket and the tiny, dependent life he now held. Malmö rose outside the window, a city of unfamiliar shapes and sounds, a place to disappear.

Now, standing on a windswept street with that same child crying against his shoulder, the reality was a cold fist in his gut. He was alone. He had to find a place to live, and the money in his pocket was a sick joke. He knew the odds. Anything affordable would be a dump, a hole in the wall. He didn't care. Dirty, one room, a closet—it didn't matter. He just needed four walls and a door that locked.

His eyes, scanning the grimy poles and noticeboards for any sliver of hope, caught on a flyer. The word "FREE" was a siren's call, bold and impossible. His gut, honed by a life of bad deals and worse luck, screamed it was a scam. But his gut was all he had, and his options were zero.

Pulling the baby closer, trying to muffle its cries against his jacket, he followed the address to an old building that seemed to sag under the weight of its own years. He found the floor, found the door—a boring, scuffed thing—and knocked, his heart thudding a nervous rhythm against the baby's back.

The door opened, revealing the landlord.

Tonny’s gaze was a desperate, skittish thing, darting from their face to the hallway behind them and back. He held up the crumpled flyer with one trembling hand, the other clinging tightly to the baby.

“U-um… hey,” he stammered, his voice rough with exhaustion and fear. “Are you the landlord? From this announcement?”