The city screamed.
Not from war.
From children.
Not the kind of screams that made headlines. Not the kind that shook officials into action. These were the quiet, constant cries—of hunger, of bruised bodies, of broken hope.
They came from under bridges, between rusted fences, behind dumpsters soaked in piss and rainwater. Screams woven into the fabric of the city like mold between bricks.
Above it all stood towers of white light and blue glass. Warm rooms. Clean water. Soft hands.
Below, in the alleyways and shadows, children cried themselves voiceless—and no one listened.
He never had a name that stuck.
His mother gave birth to him in a hospital bathroom and left before the blood stopped dripping. She came back a week later—not for him, but to sell him to a man who promised her "enough for the next high." His father stood by the door, smoking. His only words:
"Don't cry. You're a man now."
He was five years old.
He remembered flashes—faces, cold hands, locked doors, moldy ceilings. But most of all, he remembered hunger. The kind that wrapped around your stomach like wire, tight and biting. The kind that turned thoughts into knives.
By six, he had already seen three children die.
One choked on spoiled soup. One froze to death against a church wall with a Bible clutched to her chest.
The last one starved—just a few feet away from a charity truck that gave out expired bread in front of news cameras.
The man handing out the food had a smile that stretched too wide. A reporter asked for a photo. He bent down beside the dead-eyed kids and raised a thumbs up.
"Hope is alive," he said.
Then he stepped over a corpse without looking down.
By seven, the boy knew how the world worked.
He didn't beg.
He stole.
He fought.
He bit.
He once sank his teeth into a man's wrist until he drew blood—just to grab a half-eaten hotdog from his hand. The man kicked him across the pavement.
But he still ate.
And that was a victory.
There was no such thing as innocence where he lived. Only smaller predators and weaker prey.
Kindness was death in disguise.
He had watched the generous die first. The boy who split his rice got his throat slashed by the one he fed. The girl who shared her blanket was dragged off by drunk men.
Even the ones who smiled too often were marked—people assumed they had something to steal.
He learned quickly.
Smiles were weapons. So were tears.
Survival wasn't about being good.
It was about being forgotten until you were dangerous.
Sometimes, the rich came.
Not to live. Just to film.
Influencers. Politicians. Church groups. They arrived with their filters and their pity, walking through the slums like tourists on a poverty safari.
They took photos beside the dirtiest kids. Gave out pre-packed "donation kits" with toothpaste and crackers.
Some even cried. It looked good on camera.
One woman knelt beside him once. Brushed the dirt from his cheek.
"We'll come back for you," she whispered.
She never did.
But her photo went viral.
"Angel Among the Forgotten."
He saw her face again months later—on a billboard.
Selling perfume.
He learned the script.
Lower your head.
Widen your eyes.
Look fragile.
Let them believe they're saving you.
Then steal their wallets.
But tonight was different.
Tonight, he was no longer one of the forgotten.
Tonight, they would remember him.
He stood on a rooftop—broken, rusted, barely holding under the weight of the rain. Below him, chaos churned.
He'd started it with a whisper. A lie.
"A truck's coming. Full of rice. Enough to feed everyone."
And then, he delivered.
Not kindness. Just bait.
Sacks of rice—old, yellowed, laced with just enough hope to cause a riot.
Word spread fast. The poor always talked when they were starving.
Dozens came. Then hundreds.
Then the screaming began.
He watched as mothers clawed each other open for a chance at a bag.
He saw children shove elders into walls.
Fathers ripped through crowds like wolves for a single sack.
People bled.
Some died.
All for a taste of survival.
He didn't flinch.
He didn't look away.
He smiled.
They were no longer people to him.
They were tests.
Subjects.
He didn't give them food to help them.
He gave it to see.
Who fought.
Who fled.
Who hesitated.
Who drew blood without shame.
He wasn't looking for the weak.
He was looking for recruits.
"They'll remember this," he muttered to himself.
"The day food became a weapon."
Once, he was like them.
Cold. Hungry. Begging for crumbs.
Hoping someone, somewhere, would look down and care.
But that hope died years ago—beaten to death by reality.
Now he didn't beg.
He offered.
And when people were desperate enough, they'd kneel for even the smallest offering.
That was power.
That was control.
"Next time," he whispered, his voice low and calm, "I won't give them scraps."
The screams below grew louder—like music.
"Next time, I'll give them a reason to kill."
He turned, vanishing into the smoke and shadows of the city's spine, as fires began to rise behind him.
He didn't look back.
He never did.