Their feet were sore, clothes torn by the long march, and fear still lingered in their eyes. But finally, Léon and the orphans had crossed the border.
Before them stretched a vast city.
Skyscrapers rose like stone giants, horns blared, crowds rushed by... Everything felt foreign—too fast, too cold.
But above all… too indifferent.
No welcome.
No helping hand.
Only concrete, noise, and eyes that quickly looked away.
They were just children.
Homeless.
Without papers.
Not even a crumb of bread.
Night was approaching.
The cold would fall soon, and with it, hunger.
Léon took a deep breath and looked around. He spotted an old shed, a rundown building wedged between two warehouses. He led the group there without a word and shut the door behind them once everyone was inside.
— "Stay here," he said, his voice firm but gentle. "Close the curtains. Make as little noise as possible. It's not a home… but it's a start."
The children sat against the dusty walls, some trembling, others already asleep with empty stomachs.
But they all waited.
Léon clenched his fists. He couldn't just stand by and watch them suffer.
Then he turned to a boy who was silently watching him.
He looked about his age—maybe a little sturdier, with shaved hair and sharp eyes.
— "You. Come with me."
The boy followed without question.
— "What's your name?" Léon asked as they walked.
— "Doplamine."
— "I'm Léon. We're going to find food for the others, alright?"
Doplamine nodded.
He wasn't afraid. Or maybe he was simply too tired to feel fear anymore.
The two boys stepped into the dark streets with a mission:
find food—no matter the risk.
The city seemed to swallow them with every step. Passersby didn't see them. To them, they were just two more shadows in the urban misery.
But Léon had already walked through hell.
And now, he refused to back down.
The two boys had split up, promising to meet again before sunset. They knew time was against them. The little ones were waiting. And hunger never took a break.
Léon headed north, where the buildings were more industrial, less guarded.
Doplamine had ventured into the market alleys, hoping to find charity… or a fortunate oversight.
After several minutes of walking, heart pounding, Léon discovered a large storage factory, isolated, with dusty windows and walls stained by time. Peering inside, he spotted entire crates of fruit: bananas, mangoes, apples...
With hunger twisting his stomach and duty pulling him forward, he forced open a side window, slipped inside quietly, and began filling a cloth bag he'd found.
But as he was about to leave, a shout froze him in place:
— "Hey you! What are you doing here?!"
The factory guard appeared, his flashlight trembling in his hand.
Léon didn't wait.
With the bag over his shoulder, he ran, knocking over crates, jumping over pallets. He managed to escape through an emergency exit and dashed through the streets at full speed.
But fear and adrenaline clouded his vision.
The screech of tires. A scream. A crash.
The bag of fruit flew through the air.
Léon's body was thrown to the ground, his foot twisted at an unnatural angle. A searing pain engulfed him.
He couldn't move anymore.
Blood slowly trickled from his head.
He heard voices around him.
A crowd had gathered.
— "Is that a child?"
— "Where did he come from? Was he running away?"
— "Someone call an ambulance!"
But Léon no longer really listened.
Everything grew blurry, distant.
The screams around him faded away.
He felt his body slipping… drifting…
But deep inside, a voice resisted.
A thin, burning force refused to let go.
"I can't die now… Not now… The others are waiting for me… I have to come back… I have to protect them…"
His consciousness, hanging by a thread, fought against the abyss.
Between life and death, Léon refused to die.
TO BE CONTINUED