1.

The pain is a grinding, hollow ache, but it's the hunger that is truly the worst. It claws at my stomach, making every frantic breath shallow and sharp. But I can't stop. I have to keep going, keep putting distance between myself and that crumbling prison—the place I once called "home." Now, it's just The Dubois Orphanage, a name that tastes like ash. Now, it's Hell.

I am running from hell at all costs, escaping the devil in the guise of Mr. Dubois. Last night, the sick old man finally crossed the line. His dirty paws. The thought alone sends a wave of revulsion so strong I have to spit on the pavement just to clear the taste. My eighteenth birthday wasn't a celebration; it was the trigger for a nightmare. "It's your birthday, Manda, let me give you your present!" he'd husked, and then his hands were on me, violating the secret places my mother had warned me to protect. I fought him off, fueled by adrenaline and utter disgust, and now I'm here: Amanda, newly eighteen, and officially homeless.

My life wasn't always a scramble on the cold streets. There was a time when my family had a good life, a secure one, until my little sister grew seriously ill and died. The loss didn't just break my parents; it annihilated them. They retreated into their grief, eventually giving up on each other, on themselves, and on me.

The crushing weight of medical bills started the slide. My mother, desperate, did what she swore she wouldn't: she became an escort for high-end clients. She insisted it was just providing companionship—no sex, just an arm for rich men at business dinners. But when my father discovered the truth, he went completely crazy. The violence was swift and brutal; he hit her hard enough to send her to the hospital with fractures.

A few nights later, consumed by rage, my father found the exclusive club where my mother worked. He was arrested after confronting and killing a client who had tried to visit my mother in the hospital. The police took him away. The last I heard, he drank himself to death in a prison cell.

My mother, meanwhile, fully embraced her new life. She’s now "dating" one of those big-shot businessmen, according to the scraps of news I’d manage to find online at the orphanage. Before she left me there, she tried to make me understand, showing me the cash. She pulled thousands of dollars from her purse, the basic price plus a bonus for one evening's work. My jaw dropped. This was the only way to quickly erase the mountain of debt, she explained, something impossible with a "normal" job.

She left me with a promise: she would come back for me. I waited. And waited. My father died, and when I had nowhere else to go, I ended up with Mr. Dubois. I don't hate my mother, I just ache for the fantasy: the dream where she comes back in a fancy car, takes me to a beautiful new house, and we live happily ever after. Today, though, my reality is the freezing pavement.

My knowledge of intimacy is limited to hushed rumors and incomplete high school health lectures. I’m eighteen, never been kissed, never had a boyfriend. It’s embarrassing to admit, but I’m terrified of it. They say it hurts the first time, and I already feel so fragile. I have no experience, and I fear looking foolish in front of a man.

But if you asked me who I dream of? I’d wish for a slightly older man, someone kind and handsome, with enough experience to teach me what I've missed out on—not just about intimacy, but about life.

Someone with character who would see me, the real Amanda, and not judge my broken past. Someone who could actually take care of me.

Those men belong in the fantasy world my mother stepped into, worlds away from the dirty streets I’m running on. There is absolutely no way I would ever meet a man like that...

I sigh and shake my head, willing the daunting thoughts away.

I’ve been walking for hours now, the cold London wind biting through my thin clothes. My desperation is a heavy cloak. All I want is a place for the night—somewhere dry, not too cold, and safe—but the city is unforgiving. Every passing face is averted, every quick glance laced with contempt. They don't have a clue what I’ve just been through. Despicable people, living in their warm bubbles.

The only thing I managed to secure was a single apple, snatched earlier from an open-air stall. I take a careful, small bite, savoring the meager sweetness, and tuck the rest away. It will certainly brown before I get to it, but I have no choice. Survival means rationing.

As I round a corner near an abandoned warehouse district, I spot them: Brandon and his gang.

Brandon. I met him once at the orphanage. He always seemed to float on the periphery—not quite a loner, but not entirely of the crowd either. We'd talked a bit, and I remember him casually asking me to join him and his friends. I’d refused then, stupidly clinging to the false security of the orphanage. Now, the memory of that offer feels like a lifeline.

This is my chance. I approach him from behind, swallowing my fear. "Hey, Brandon!"

He turns quickly, a slight startle in his posture before he smooths his expression. "Hey, Amanda, right?" I nod.

"What's up? Did they finally kick you out?" he asks, a small smirk playing on his lips. When I don't laugh—when my face remains cold and drawn—the smirk vanishes. His eyes immediately soften with genuine worry. "Are... are you okay, then?" he asks softly.

"No," I whisper, the word thick with shame and fury. "I walked away from there. I ran from that monster Dubois."

He doesn't press for details, though the questions are plain in his eyes. He just waits, letting me breathe.

"Please," I continue, my voice tight with urgency. "I know I have to earn your trust, and I'll explain everything. But I've been walking for hours. It'll be dark soon. Can you just help me find a place to sleep tonight?"

He exchanges a quick, meaningful glance with the young man next to him, who I recognize as Dylan. They murmur something too low for me to catch, and then Brandon turns back to me, his face resolute.

"You're alright, Amanda," he says, a flicker of something like respect in his gaze. "You can come with us. We'll show you how we work, teach you a few tricks to get by. In return, you help the group. Deal?"

"Yes! Anything, Brandon," I say, a rush of desperate happiness makes me dizzy. He offers a hand, and we shake on it, sealing the pact. The relief is so profound that a small, genuine smile breaks through my exhaustion for the first time since my escape.

The gang's spot is an empty, skeletal building—likely an old factory or warehouse. It's not secure; cold air rushes in through broken windows and gaps in the walls, but it is infinitely better than the exposed street.

In the center of the largest room, they had constructed a makeshift fire pit using cinder blocks, carefully contained to prevent the flames from spreading. Dylan explains they light it at night for warmth and a little light.

They offered me some scraps of food—stale bread and a bit of hard cheese from a successful run the day before. It's not much, but it's salvation. While I eat, I find an unclaimed mat in a corner and make a small bed.

Brandon introduces me to the rest of the gang. It’s a mixed group—around fifteen kids in total, boys and girls of different ages and backgrounds, all hiding from the world. We exchange quick nods and handshakes, the formality of it easing the tension.

My exhaustion finally hits, heavy and undeniable. I excuse myself. I crawl onto the mat, curl into a tight ball to preserve what little heat I have, and slowly, gratefully, drift away into the darkness. I'm spent, but happy to have found a temporary haven.

I sleep. Unaware that in the shadows, someone is watching my sleeping form with calculating, greedy eyes.

I woke up in a sudden, frantic chaos. Loud shuffling and panicked whispers filled the warehouse. I lifted my head, groggy from exhaustion, only to see the other kids scrambling, snatching bags, and sprinting toward the exits like disturbed ants.

"What's happening?" I called the nearest girl, who didn't even slow down.

"Cops! They found the spot! We gotta go!" she spat out, her eyes wide with fear.

My heart slammed against my ribs. I scrambled up, adrenaline instantly wiping away the sleep. Just as I grabbed my meager bag and jacket, Dylan rounded the corner, his face tight.

"Hey, girl, let's move! The police are on the way!"

"I heard! Why didn't anyone wake me?" I demanded, annoyed and scared.

Dylan gave a dismissive, half-smirk. "You're new, and you took the darkest corner. Guess you got overlooked. Sorry 'bout that," he said, though his eyes lacked apology.

"Forget that. What about Brandon? The boss—where is he?"

Dylan shrugged, his attention already on the exits.

"Good question. Haven't seen him since late last night. Hope he didn't get caught."

A loud, metallic crash echoed from the main entrance, followed by a voice amplified by a megaphone: "Police! Everybody put your hands up against the wall!"