Especially after years of living alone.
He hated noise.
He hated problems.
And most of all… he hated the street kids who lingered near his property.
“Nothing but trouble,” he muttered, staring out the window.
Around noon, as he sipped his coffee, a strange sound reached him from outside.
Scratch… scratch…
His eyes narrowed.
He stepped closer to the glass—and froze.
A boy, no older than ten, stood with his back to the house… drawing on the freshly painted wall.
With charcoal.
The child was barefoot, wearing a torn tank top, his hands blackened with soot.
William’s face flushed with rage.
“You little brat!” he shouted. “Who gave you permission to touch my wall?!”
Blinded by anger, he grabbed the expensive leather belt lying on the couch.
He’d had enough.
Graffiti. Vandalism. Disrespect.
Not today.
He threw the gate open.
BAM!
“HEY! WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?!” he roared, marching toward the boy, belt raised.
The child flinched, dropping the charcoal. He turned around, trembling, his face smudged with dirt and ash.
“S-sir… I’m sorry… please don’t hit me…” the boy cried, covering his head.