A boy, maybe thirteen years old, was dragging himself across the wet pavement. His knees scraped the concrete, leaving streaks of blood that blended with the rainwater. His expensive clothes were torn apart, and bruises darkened his face. His arms were covered in cuts.
And his legs… they bent at angles no legs should ever bend.
His bright green eyes were wide with terror.
When he saw Emma’s small silhouette, he didn’t cry for help.
Instead, trembling, he begged:
“Please… don’t hurt me… I can’t walk…”
Emma’s first instinct screamed at her to run.
Trouble meant danger. And danger meant death for kids like her.
But those words—don’t hurt me—weren’t spoken by someone who had simply fallen.
They came from someone who had spent a long time learning to be afraid.
Emma stepped out into the rain, raising her empty hands.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” she said softly.
The boy tried to drag himself backward, panic flooding his face.
“No… no… they’ll come back… they always come back…”
Emma felt something twist painfully inside her chest.
She knew fear.
But this was different.
This fear was older… deeper… like chains you couldn’t see.