Luxury cars sped by, their tinted windows flashing sunlight back into the sky, indifferent to the quieter struggles happening below. Beneath the steady hum of engines and restless city noise stood a small, fragile figure trying to survive.
He was no older than ten, dressed in clothes worn thin by time and hardship. His sun-skin and dust-smudged cheeks contrasted with bright, watchful eyes that carried both curiosity and resignation.
In his hands, he held a small bundle of fading daisies, offering them softly to pedestrians who either ignored him or avoided eye contact altogether. Indifference was the constant rhythm of his world.
The flow of traffic broke with the sharp hiss of brakes. A gleaming black Rolls-Royce Phantom pulled to a stop directly in front of him. Conversations nearby stalled. The tinted window slid down, and an automatic ramp unfolded from the rear door.
Out emerged Jonathan Harrington.
He wore a flawless ivory linen suit, tailored perfectly against his tall frame. His silver hair was brushed neatly back, exposing a face carved by age and bitterness. He sat in a sleek motorized wheelchair—more throne than chair—its polished steel reflecting the streetlights.