The buzzing of the cheap alarm clock echoed through the small, roach-infested room like a curse.
Logan Cross jolted awake, the thin blanket tangled around his legs, his breath fogging in the early morning chill. The room was freezing — the window panes cracked, the wooden frame letting in gusts of cold wind from the outside. The sun hadn't even risen yet, but he had no choice. Sleep was a luxury he couldn't afford.
He sat up, rubbing the weariness from his eyes. The bed creaked under his weight, its springs long since worn out. A part of the ceiling had water damage, and brown stains stretched like scars across the plaster. His room smelled like mildew and old dust, and the faint scent of burnt plastic from the neighbor's broken stove.
This house, or what remained of it, was the only thing left to him from his mother — a crumbling, one-floor shack at the edge of a dying neighborhood in the industrial zone. Every house on the block looked abandoned. Some were half-collapsed. Others were covered in graffiti and boarded up. Gunshots were not uncommon at night, and police sirens had become the background music of his existence.
He shuffled toward the sink in the corner of the room, twisted the rusted tap, and waited for the slow trickle of cold water. No hot water, of course. He splashed some on his face, feeling the sting of icy droplets slap his skin.
No breakfast. There was nothing in the fridge but a jar of expired mustard and a half-empty bottle of tap water.
Logan checked his phone — a cracked second-hand model with a shattered screen — and sighed. Another long day ahead. Another meaningless cycle of jobs that paid too little and drained too much.
He threw on a wrinkled hoodie and the same pair of jeans he wore every day — torn at the knees and loose at the waist. They had once belonged to his stepbrother. The only "gifts" he ever got were hand-me-downs from people who hated him.
Outside, the streets were still dark, lit only by the flickering glow of broken streetlamps. Trash littered the sidewalks. Logan walked fast, head down, hands in his pockets, avoiding eye contact with the shady figures loitering at corners. The bus stop was a five-minute walk, but every second felt longer in this neighborhood. He had been mugged before. More than once.
By the time he boarded the rusted city bus, the seats were already half full with tired workers, their faces blank, lifeless, like ghosts bound to a world that refused to acknowledge them. He sat in silence, earbuds in with no music playing — just a way to shut out the noise.
First Job: Dishwasher at 6 AM
The back entrance of Grumpy Joe's Diner was greasy and reeked of spoiled meat. Logan clocked in, pulled on the plastic apron, and got to work. Plates, forks, knives, pans, trays — an endless stream of dirty dishes, baked-on grease, and the stink of dried eggs and tomato sauce.
His fingers burned from the hot water. His back ached after just an hour. The kitchen staff barked orders and cursed like it was the only language they knew.
Nobody cared about Logan. He was invisible here — just another body to keep the place running.
After four hours, he was allowed a five-minute break. No free meals, of course. He sat outside by the dumpsters, chewing on a granola bar he'd saved from yesterday, eyes staring into nothing.
Then, it was time for his second job.
---
Second Job: Stock Boy at the Dollar Mart
The store manager was a walking stress ball who treated every worker like a criminal. Logan spent six hours restocking shelves, lifting boxes heavier than his body wanted to carry, and scanning barcodes in the freezing storage room.
When he asked for gloves to protect his hands, he was told to "man up."
When he asked for a longer lunch break, he was reminded he wasn't even full-time.
He left with sore arms, an empty stomach, and twenty dollars in his pocket.
---
Evening Gig: Delivery Boy for Cheapo Pizza
With a borrowed e-scooter that barely ran, Logan made deliveries through the city's rain-slicked streets, dodging traffic, climbing stairs in apartment buildings with broken elevators, and dealing with rude customers who often didn't tip at all.
One man screamed at him for being three minutes late. Another threw the pizza on the floor because it was "too cold."
Every insult, every glare, every slammed door dug into Logan's pride like nails.
But he said nothing. He just nodded and moved on.
Because he had no choice.
---
Nightfall: Home, If You Could Call It That
By the time Logan reached home, it was almost 11 PM. He was soaked from the rain. His shoes squelched with each step, and his stomach groaned like a beast.
There was still nothing to eat.
He curled up in his creaky bed, clothes still wet, staring at the cracked ceiling as the wind howled outside and gunshots echoed in the distance.
He didn't cry. He didn't even frown.
Because this was his life.
And no one gave a damn about Logan Cross.
---
The old ceiling fan spun slowly above Logan's bed, creaking as it circled. The summer heat hung thick in the air, and the distant sound of police sirens echoed in the night. Logan lay on his worn-out mattress, the spring digging into his back. His stomach growled, but he ignored it. This kind of hunger was familiar now — like an old companion.
As he stared blankly at the cracked ceiling, a flicker of light danced behind his eyes — a memory. Something soft, something from before the world became so cruel.
---
He was eight years old.
The sun poured into a modest but cozy living room, warm and golden. Dust danced in the beams of light, and the faint smell of cinnamon lingered in the air. A woman stood at the stove, humming a tune — off-key, but full of life. She wore a faded yellow apron with little sunflowers stitched on it, her long chestnut hair tied in a loose bun.
"Logan! Breakfast is ready, sweetheart!" she called out with a smile.
A younger Logan — cheeks round, hair messy — came running in, barefoot and grinning. "Pancakes! Mom, you're the best!"
She laughed, her eyes soft and brown like honey. "Only because my favorite boy deserves the best."
They sat together at the small kitchen table. The pancakes weren't perfect. Slightly burnt on one side, unevenly shaped — but they were filled with care. She poured syrup in a smiley face pattern, and Logan giggled as he dug in.
"Mom?" he had asked suddenly, halfway through chewing.
"Yes, love?"
"Will we always be together?"
She paused, then leaned in and brushed his hair back. "As long as you remember me, I'll never leave you. Even when I'm not here, I'll be in your heart. That's a promise."
He didn't understand it fully then. But now…
---
Logan blinked. His eyes were wet, and he didn't even notice the tear slipping down his cheek until it landed on his hand.
She died just a few years after that memory. Cancer, they said. Aggressive, terminal. It happened so fast. Too fast.
He remembered the hospital room. The way her once-vibrant face had paled, the strength in her hands fading day by day. Even in the end, she smiled for him.
"Logan… live a good life. Even when it's hard. You're stronger than you think."
Those were her last words.
He didn't cry at her funeral. Not then. Everyone told him he was being brave. But the truth was… he didn't know how to cry yet.
The house he now lived in — that broken, rotting shack in the slums — was hers. The government wanted to take it back after she died, but she'd written it in her will. It was all she could leave behind for her son.
---
The living room was still filled with traces of her. Her old sewing machine sat under a cloth, long silent. A chipped mug with her name on it still rested in the cupboard. A dusty photo frame on the shelf held the only picture Logan had of them together — a much younger version of himself sitting on her lap, grinning with missing teeth while she hugged him from behind.
He touched the photo now, gently.
"I miss you," he whispered.
But the room stayed silent.
Sometimes, late at night, when the wind blew through the cracked windows, he swore he could hear her humming. Maybe it was just his memory playing tricks. Or maybe… it was her promise.
---
The Downfall Begins
After her death, things spiraled quickly.
His father, who had been absent most of his childhood, suddenly appeared a year later. Not out of love — but out of obligation. And soon after, he brought home a new woman. A glamorous, shallow person who treated Logan like dirt. She came with her own children — twins, both Logan's age — and immediately, Logan became the outsider.
When his father died in a car accident just a year after marrying her, Logan hoped — prayed — that maybe things would get better.
They didn't.
That was when the real suffering began.