In this world... no one looks into your eyes unless they're trying to calculate your worth.
No one reaches out a hand unless it's to steal what's in your pocket or what's left of your dignity.
The nobles? They're gold-eaters, blood-drinkers, smiling executioners who kill you and then blame you for bleeding too much.
In our streets, hunger hangs like decorations on crumbling walls, and corpses are strung up on lampposts every morning.
A noble steals a poor man's bread, then drags him to court for "daring to be hungry."
The police don't protect you here they count how many times you scream before you die.
My name…?
Let's not rush.
Names don't matter here. They're buried long before the people who carry them.
But remember this well:
Every corrupt system casts a black shadow…
And I was that shadow.
Not for justice… but for revenge.
They say the city never sleeps.
But the truth?
The city never dies.
Because death is mercy and this city knows none.
Cracked sidewalks like our hearts. Walls that listen more than they protect.
And the sky? Always gray, even when the sun is shining.
Here, no one respects anyone.
A man is measured by the weight of gold in his pocket, not by his purity or intellect.
As for women? They're sold like bread and thrown away like ash.
Children are born carrying the debts of their fathers, and the poor are buried alive in tax records.
I was five years old when a noble stole our home.
He didn't break the door. He didn't raise a sword. He just sent a stamped paper.
One paper… and our roof vanished. We slept under the rain.
My mother came to me that night, eyes red from cold and crying.
She placed her hand on my head and said:
"Live, my son… Don't die like your father."
I didn't understand then.
I didn't know my father died standing begging a corrupt judge
He died because his heart couldn't bear seeing his son starve.
After that… I wasn't a child anymore.
I became something else.
Something that watches in silence.
That counts the bodies on the pavement.
That tallies the curses whispered every night from the mouths of the broken.
In the schools of the rich, they teach magic and polite words.
We… we learned how to steal an apple without losing a hand.
Yes, we stole.
But we weren't thieves we were starving.
And in our city, hunger is a greater crime than murder.
I thought I was alone… until I realized everyone around me wore a mask.
A mask of patience.
A mask of respect.
A mask of fear.
And me? I chose to take mine off.
Not because I'm strong but because I couldn't stand the silence anymore.
I have nothing to lose.
No name. No family. No future.
All I have… are my words, my stare, and my burning desire to tear down this rotten system.
Am I a hero? No.
I am the shadow they created.
The son of silence.
The brother of rage.
The companion of loneliness.
In this place, if you're not a wolf… they'll eat you.
And now… I'm learning to howl.
But...
Do you know what the most devastating kind of loss is?
It's not losing money, or a friend, or even yourself…
It's losing your mother.
Losing the woman who carried you not with hands, but with her heart.
Who slept on the floor so you could sleep in a bed.
Who ate stale bread just to keep you full.
Nine months she carried you in her belly…
Nine years she carried you on her back…
And the rest of her life… she carried you in her prayers.
Have you ever seen your mother cry for you?
Seen her eyes look at you like you were the whole universe?
I have.
I saw my mother get slapped in front of me, and I couldn't do a thing.
I saw her blood run down her forehead as she whispered:
"Don't move… don't let them kill you."
And I didn't move.
I was a child trembling, heart collapsing, betrayed by my tears.
They wanted to steal our dignity. It was all we had left.
And she died defending it.
No one buried her properly…
They dumped her in a field, with no gravestone, no shroud.
They buried my heart with her.
Since that day, I haven't spoken much.
Because my mother's voice was more beautiful than all the voices in this world and now it's gone.
I haven't laughed.
Because my mother used to laugh first… and now no one laughs with me.
I haven't dreamed.
Because my mother was my only dream.
You want to know why I hate this city?
Not just because it's cruel…
But because it made me grow up without my mother's embrace.
It made me learn how to fight before I learned what love meant.
It made me carry a knife instead of my mother's hand.
It made me swear in my heart:
"I will destroy everyone who killed her… even if it means destroying the whole world."
I'm not a hero.
I'm just a boy whose mother never finished telling him the bedtime story before she vanished.
A boy who can't sleep when he remembers her trembling hands.
And every time I hear a woman cry out "My son!"
Something inside me breaks.
Don't tell me time heals all wounds…
Mothers can't be replaced.
They can't be forgotten.
And now…
Before you start judging me,
Before you call me a criminal or a rebel…
Ask the city:
What did you do to his mother?
Why did you let the silence inside him grow into a weapon?
And if they don't answer…
Then let me speak for them with blades.
And the nobles?
Don't ask me about them.
I swear I saw a beggar cry because he lost his honor…
But I've never seen a noble shed a single tear for losing his daughter's.
How could they cry…
When they sold her honor before she even learned how to say her name?
They say: "We protect the family."
Then marry off their daughters to seventy-year-old men in exchange for land or a business deal.
They say: "Honor is a red line."
Then send their girls barefoot to palaces to decorate royal halls
Like furniture, not human beings.
What kind of honor is that?
Their honor isn't measured by purity… but by price.
Girls aren't raised. They're fattened like hens… for the highest bidder.
And when a girl gets raped, they say:
"Maybe she tempted him."
And when she runs away, they say:
"She brought shame."
Shame?
Shame is being a father who smiles while handing his daughter to a wolf
Then prays to God like nothing happened.
In our neighborhood…
The poor die to protect their daughters' honor.
In their palaces?
Honor is washed in money and hung on the wall like art
Untouchable… and equally meaningless.
So let someone write this down:
"In the Lower City… honor is paid for in blood.
In the Upper City… it's sold with the first glass of wine."
Yes…
I hate them.
Not because they're rich but because they have no faces.
Because they wear dignity like a mask, and stomp it into the dirt the moment a deal is made.
And I'll say it plainly…
When a princess sells her honor for a new title,
She's no better than the desperate girl crying on a street corner, forced into what she never wanted.
At least the poor girl cried.
The noblewoman?
She laughed… and gifted her white dress to the wolf.
Haah…
Oh yes…
Are you wondering what my goal is?
Pretending to be shocked, like you don't already know?
Fine… I'll say it.
Loudly. In front of everyone.
My goal?
To rip this system out by its roots.
To bring down their castles stone by stone.
To melt all their gold and use it to make shoes for the orphans.
To crush the slave system…
That turned free people into prisoners,
And gave the power to those enslaved by money.
To burn the "authority" we were born beneath
As if it were some untouchable god.
To shatter the "tyrannical power" forced upon us by these nobles…
Nobles who've never known hunger,
Nobles who toss leftovers while our children lick the dirt.
Does that scare you?
Good.
You've made me live in fear long enough Now it's your turn to be afraid.
A day will come…
When a noblewoman sleeps under a wooden roof,
Terrified of a knock at the door…
And a street rat sits in the seat of power.
Because everything will change.
Not through mercy.
Not through dialogue.
But through blood…
And steel…
And words no one dared to speak before me.
This is a promise…
From a son of the Lower City…
From the boy whose mother was buried without a name…
From a shadow who wears no crown…
But will burn the crown itself.