The heavy glass door of the Café & Crémant swung open with a bell chime, followed immediately by a roar that silenced the morning commuters.
"WHAT DID I TELL YOU!?"
The shop owner, wearing a clean white apron that matched his sharp temper, stepped onto the sidewalk. He stood over a dirty, huddled teenage boy. The boy didn't look up; he couldn't. He just stared at the display window with intense hunger.
"I've warned you every morning for a week!" the owner screamed, his face turning a mottled purple. "You sit here like a plague! You're scaring away people who actually have money, and your stench— God, your stench is so foul I swear it makes my fresh sourdough go stale just by being near it!"
The boy cracked lips moved, a dry, raspy sound escaping his throat. "Bread… please… just the scraps…"
"I'll give you scraps!"
The man bellowed. He swung a heavy, polished leather shoe, catching the boy squarely in the ribs. The boy collapsed, but the man didn't stop.
"Get! Out! Of! My! Sight!"
Each kick landed with a sickening thud. One final strike hit the boy's temple, slamming his head against the pavement. The crack should have made onlookers flinch, but they didn't. The crowd moved around the violence like water around a stone. They stared at their phones, treating the bleeding boy like city trash. He lay there with the taste of blood in his mouth and his nose bleeding onto the concrete.
The owner raised his foot for a final blow, but it never landed. A firm hand grabbed his ankle, holding it in mid-air with unexpected strength.
"That's enough."
The owner wobbled and looked down in a rage that quickly turned to fear. He recognized the young man's blazer: the navy and gold of the City's Elite Academy. That emblem represented the kind of wealth and political power that could close his business with a single phone call.
The owner flinched, his aggression turning into a desperate attempt at politeness. "Oh— I didn't see you there, young sir," he stammered, his voice becoming submissive. "I was just dealing with a pest. This boy was scaring away the wealthy customers."
"He's a human being," the student replied. His voice was steady, but it carried an undeniable edge that made the owner's pulse quicken. "If you're so worried about your customers, consider how they'll feel watching an adult beat a starving child to death on their way to brunch. It isn't a good look for your 'prestige' establishment, is it?"
The owner swallowed hard, his face pale as he looked from student's expensive sleeves to the filth on the ground.
"R-right. Of course. A misunderstanding, truly!" He adjusted his apron with trembling hands, backing away toward his door. "I'll just... head back inside. Please, don't let this spoil your morning, sir. If you need anything; a coffee, a table— it's on the house!"
As the door slammed shut and the bell jingled behind the retreating man, the student knelt in the grime of the sidewalk. He didn't hesitate for a second, reaching out to steady the homeless boy. He seemed completely unbothered as the black grease and streaks of blood smeared onto his pristine, gold embroidered sleeves.
"Easy now," he whispered, pulling a silk handkerchief from his pocket. He gently wiped the blood from the boy's lip, his expression one of genuine, soft concern. "You've got a lot of fight in you to take a beating like that and stay conscious."
The homeless boy stared at him, dazed. He didn't understand the kindness. It felt more foreign than the pain. He reached into his paper bag and pulled out a single, golden brown roll.
"I'm sorry I can only spare one. I have a family of six waiting for me at home, and I'm the one bringing breakfast today." He pressed the bread into the boy's trembling hands and offered a smile… a radiant, contagious beam of light. "Don't come back here, okay? Some people have forgotten how to be kind. Go somewhere safe."
The student helped the boy up, supporting his weight until they reached the mouth of a secluded alleyway. He tucked the handkerchief into boy's hand.
"Keep that. It'll help with the bleeding. Take care of yourself."
With a final wave, the golden boy of the Academy walked away, disappearing into the sunlight. The homeless boy sat in the shadows, leaning against a damp brick wall. He looked down at the bread, his hands shaking so violently the crust flaked off. A single tear carved a clean path through the dirt on his cheek. For a moment, the alley vanished.
He was back in a small, warm kitchen. A woman with midnight black hair same as him was laughing, using a cloth to wipe the corner of his mouth as he stuffed his face.
"Don't rush, Aedes," she'd whisper, her voice like a lullaby. "Eat slowly. I cooked more than enough for both of us. The food isn't going to run away."
The memory was so vivid he could almost feel her touch. It was more than just a thought; it was the foundation of who he was before the world broke him. It was his anchor.
"Mom… ARGH!—"
His head throbbed with a white hot intensity, the forgotten pieces of his past slamming into his mind. The effort of remembering was too much for his frail body; his nose began to bleed again. He sobbed, a sound of broken exhaustion, and lifted the bread to his mouth for the first bite of his life saving meal.
Suddenly, a blur of grey fur shot out from a pile of trash.
A massive, scarred sewer rat lunged with snapping teeth. In an instant, it snatched the bread from Aedes's weak grip.