Fifteen minutes— That's how long it'd been since Mr. Collin waved me off—his voice gentle but tired.
"Good job today, Dumsy," he said. Always the same thing every night.
Same half-smile like he couldn't quite tell
if I ever needed more from this world.
Truth was—I didn't. Not really.
I stepped out into the belly of the city. The kind of night where everything felt either half-asleep or wide awake in all the wrong ways.
My feet moved on their own, worn sneakers slapping soft against cracked pavement.
Hands shoved deep in my hoodie, shoulders hunched not just from the cold, but from something heavier I never quite named.
Stood far ahead, a hallow street or the alleyway direct to my home. And the fastest route too.
Also the corner I hate the most. Every always smelled like old fire, like blood that dried but never left.
Still, I entered, because that's life.
It doesn't wait for your fears to leave first.
Routine of sounds began as expected— The sharp sounds first— guttural cries, a slap of flesh, and grunts of silent pains someone has to tolerate.
Then came the laughter, like coins clinking inside broken teeth. Ugly and careless; a kind of laughter that made your neck stiffen.
I tried not to look, but I still caught them.
A pack of men—no, hyenas.
Gaunt with greed, hands heavy with rings and malice. They were beating a man into the damp earth like he owed them his bones.
I froze.
But fate has this rude habit of noticing you when you pray it won't.
The man—his nose leaking red, his eyes wide and wild—broke from their grip and stumbled right into me.
Our shoulders suddenly crashed. He was all weight and panic.
And I… I hit the wall. Hard.
Dizzy, I stumbled to stand awake with my heart hanging in my throat.
The man screamed, not from pain, but from hope—maybe.
"Please! Please—help me!"
I looked at him. A very hard stare but did nothing. He looked ready to launch at me from anger but the hyenas returned.
They didn't glance at me. I wasn't a threat.
Just some quiet guy on his way home. Always had been.
I continued on with betraying steps. Not one or two but more than fifteen.
Enough until the cries faded behind me.
When I turned the final corner, the weight on my chest lifted, and I exhaled the kind of breath
you won't even know you were holding.
Finally stood home— My apartment stood like a forgotten drawer—peeling paint, rusty hinges,
and barely big enough to stretch in.
But it was mine.
Inside, the light buzzed weakly above and warmth came not from the heater, but from the soft thump of paws against the floor.
There she was.
My girl.
Snow.
Her name was simple, because that's how she looked. White like pearl threads woven into a whisper, eyes the blue of faded skies.
She meowed in that high dramatic tone
that said, "Where have you been? I nearly perished."
I laughed. Softly, but I laughed.
My second for the day. The first happened to be from the same result.
She danced around my legs, tail high, fur brushing like forgiveness.
I grabbed the food bowl—still half-full from morning—and topped it anyway.
She dove in like I hadn't fed her in a century.
So dramatic, this one.
I sat on my bed—or what passes for one. Really, it's just a couch that forgot to grow.
But when you're tired enough, even bricks feel like clouds.
I didn't change out of my clothes. Didn't even pull off my shoes. Just let gravity take me
as Snow curled into the crook of my arm
like she always knew how the day went.
She purred. A little engine of peace in a world that felt like it was always rusting.
In here— in this too-small, barely-lit room—
I could pretend the world was kind.
Even just for tonight.
The next morning, I rose with a stretch and a yawn muffled into my pillow.
The tiny room still smelled faintly of old dust and worn fabric, but Snow made it feel alive, trotting over to me with a soft meow like she'd rehearsed it all night.
"Morning, drama queen," I muttered, rubbing her soft head. She purred in response, tail flicking with practiced elegance as she led me to her bowl.
I poured her food, same as always, though she gave it a disapproving glance at first— until her hunger got the better of her theatrics.
She ate with intensity, like she hadn't been fed in decades, and I chuckled under my breath.
"Don't act like you didn't have a pile waiting yesterday," I said, watching her.
She glanced up, blinking slowly as if to say, Let me have this performance.
I gave her a final scratch under the chin,
grabbed my hoodie from the hook, and slipped out of the apartment with a soft goodbye.
The alley greeted me again, as inevitable as breathing.
I had no choice but to carry by strides through the damp corners and soaked walls of unknown whispers.
Whispers of things they'd seen.
But in still morning, it was much quieter. Just the slow drip of a pipe. No cries, no broken laughter, no chaos.
Just me, and my shadow, and the rhythm of my feet.
I didn't linger. Not even for a second and soon encountered the store ahead.
The store or supermarket—blinked in the morning haze, the flickering sign doing its best impression of "Open."
I arrived at 7 a.m. sharp—like always. The metal shutter groaned as I dragged it up, and the inside lights sputtered to life.
In the dim, hum-filled glow, the familiar scent of bleach, old bread, and cardboard boxes—brought comfort, in its own low-budget way.
I settled behind the counter, the payout register clicking as I punched it awake.
No customers yet. Just the stillness of morning,
the hum of the cooler, the faint rustle of my pages as I opened my book.
Reading was my only ritual. That, and silence.
The characters on the page were louder than any voices I heard all day.
In those paragraphs, I became someone else—
someone in a diverse world and could bravly counter anything.
I dreamt of publishing someday. Of seeing my name—Dominic Sumner— on glossy covers tucked into bookstore shelves, not beside moldy chewing gum and discount soda.
But dreams needed time. And tuition. And I'd run out of both.
I was knee-deep in a quiet scene when I heard— a tap.
Gentle, but close. Too close.
I looked up. And paused.
The man before me was impossibly tall, his presence thick like storm clouds in a clear sky.
He had dark hair slicked back without flaw,
a suit that fit like second skin, and a face carved with purpose—sharp, precise, striking.
But it was his eyes that did it. They were blue. Not just blue— the kind of blue that clung to memory.
It mirrowed Snow's, but this stance has no light.
He didn't smile.
Instead, he spoke—
voice low, smooth, but with an edge that scraped the quiet.
"Are you done staring?"
I blinked. Then blinked again. Heat crawled up my neck like guilt.
"Sorry. You just… caught me off guard," I mumbled, lowering my gaze.
He said nothing, just raised a brow. It made me feel smaller, like I'd walked onto the wrong stage mid-performance.
"What can I get you?" I asked quickly.
"A cigar. And a handkerchief," he replied. He didn't look impatient. Didn't even glance around the shop.
Just stared—still, unblinking. That's when I saw red. Tickling down from the curve of his wrist of his sleeve. It was dark and already drying in places.
Blood? Yes blood.
It looked like he received a wound that had seen worse than knives.
I tried not to freeze, but something in my limbs went quiet.
Still, I nodded and moved, retrieving the cigar from behind the glass and the only pack of handkerchiefs we had.
A simple cotton. Cheap and clean.
He reached into his coat, pulled out a few notes.
When he passed them to me, I noticed the smudges. Red fingerprints pressed faintly into the currency like petals from a dying flower.
I didn't ask. Didn't dare.
I just took the money, placed the items on the counter, and nodded with robotic precision.
He didn't move right away.
Instead, he looked at me—really looked— with those haunting, crystal eyes that made the silence between us feel like a thunderstorm had paused to listen.
Then he left.
No thank you. No goodbye—Not like I need one. The bell over the door jingled behind him
and the moment snapped in half.
I let out a breath I didn't know I'd swallowed. And then another.
"Why does this always happen to me?" I whispered to no one, rubbing my temples.
Another dangerous man. Another reminder that the world liked to brush me with its darker paint.
He was beautiful, though. Unfairly so. "Of course," I murmured to myself, resting my chin on my palm.
"Of course the fine ones are always the worst."
Shaking my head, I turned back to my book.
But I couldn't read. The words kept slipping.
I knocked my head on the counter and choosed to take a knock off.
—♥—
I was tired. Already, for the day. The day had barely found its legs, and I was already slipping on mine.
Mr. Collin called from the backroom just before I could take another breath.
"Dumsy! Run down to Silver Pot and pick up the takeout, will you? I phoned it in. It's already packed."
I blinked at the register like it owed me protection.
"But—sir, I…"
"I'd go myself," he said, already grabbing his jacket and keys, "but the supplier's coming by. Won't take long."
He waved me off like a feather. So I obeyed. Because I couldn't find any other choice.
I threw on my hoodie, not even bothering to zip it,
and jogged out of the store.
It wasn't far. Just three corners down. But my mind was foggy and my feet impatient, and I ran without really knowing how fast I was going.
All I could think about was getting back, keeping the store from chaos, and—stupidly—proving myself.
Suddenly, something hit me, metal and speed and everything in between.
I felt my body lift before I felt it fall— a strange moment where the world held its breath
and then dropped me like a thought it didn't need.
I hit the ground hard. Elbow first, in some dumb reflex to shield my head.
Then came the crunch of bone
and the blaze of pain that lit up every nerve like broken wires.
"Agh—!"
The scream was mine. But it sounded like someone else.
My vision spun, the colors smeared into one long stain. I could see someone—a blur—
getting out of the car.
They cursed under their breath,
but their hands were strangely gentle
as they helped lift me like a shattered thing.
"Damn it, kid… Why the hell were you running like that?"
A deep voice. Cold, steady but somewhat familiar? Or maybe that was the pain twisting my perception.
I didn't answer. Couldn't. Everything burned.
The last thing I remember was the car door closing beside me and the soft thud of something—maybe my heart—giving up.
Then, black.
–
I woke to white.
The ceiling above me was unfamiliar, and too clean. I blinked slowly, my eyes adjusting to the pale hospital lights and the chorus of distant beeps.
Bandages on my head. Cast on my arm—suspended up like a tragic art piece.
My leg, too. Wrapped and bounded similar to a sealed cement. Heavy too.
My body was a map of pain. Everything screamed when I moved, so I didn't.
I lay there—helpless. Humiliated and alone.
My throat tightened. Tears slipped out before I could catch them.
"I hate this," I croaked, barely a whisper.
I sniffed and cursed under my breath.
"Damn it. Damn this whole life. Damn my stupid parents." Or what used to be parents.
They were long gone, leaving me with nothing but a broken name and an emptier bank account.
How was I supposed to live now? How would I pay? Who would feed Snow?
She'd be waiting, wondering if I abandoned her like everyone else did.
I let out a broken sob. Not the loud kind. The kind that folds in on itself, tucked in the throat like a bruise.
That's when the door creaked.
"Oh no," a soft voice gasped.
I turned my head slightly, wincing, to see a nurse—young.
With kind eyes, the kind that tried to wrap sympathy around every word.
She rushed to my side and gently pressed the call button.
"You're awake. Doctor!" she called through the hallway.
Soon a doctor arrived, a tall woman with silver streaks in her hair and tired kindness in her smile.
"Dominic, right?" she asked, flipping through her clipboard.
"You're lucky. You were hit hard. Dislocated elbow, fractured leg, mild head trauma. But you'll recover. It'll take time."
"Time I don't have," I muttered bitterly. I turned my face to the pillow. "I can't pay for this."
"That's already been taken care of," she said.
My eyes opened again. "What?"
"The driver—the one who hit you. He paid. All of it."
I blinked. Confused. "What? Why?"
"He insisted," she replied, adjusting the monitor gently. "He also left a number in case you wanted to take legal action."
I scoffed. "Legal action? With what? My invisible lawyer?"
I exhaled. "Forget it. I don't want to make anything worse."
The nurse stepped forward then, her voice gentle.
"You'll be staying here until you're stable enough to move around. We'll monitor you for now."
"I can't stay here," I said, panic creeping up like cold water in my chest. "There's someone I need to take care of."
She tilted her head. "A family member?"
"A cat," I answered. "My cat. Snow. She's home alone. She needs me."
The nurse gave me a soft, puzzled smile.
"Is there someone who can look after her?"
I shook my head. "I don't have anyone. I'm… I'm an orphan."
I clenched my teeth. "I don't even have a neighbor I trust. She's all I've got."
She sighed sympathetically, brushing hair from my forehead. "We'll figure something out, Dominic."
I paused. Then blinked. My thoughts stirring slow and cautious.
"You said… the driver left a number?" I asked.
She nodded. "In the registry. It's verified."
A weak smile formed on my lips. Half mischief, half desperation. "I have an idea," I murmured.
"Do you want me to get the number for you?" she asked, uncertain.
"Yes," I said, eyes glassy with something between hope and foolishness.
"Maybe… maybe I can ask for one more thing from the guy who wrecked my entire week."
She laughed a little. "You sure?"
I looked up at the ceiling. Felt the weight of plaster and cast, but also the weight of Snow's little face,
waiting at the window, probably meowing at the silence.
"Yeah," I said. "I'm sure."
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