The streets of the wealthy quarter of the mainland buzzed with life, starkly contrasting with Nicole's slow, faltering steps. She carried her paintings tucked under her arm, each one a piece of her soul, a desperate plea to hold on to something—anything—that could keep her going. The pain from her injuries gnawed at her with every movement, a constant reminder of the beating she endured.
But Nicole pushed through, stopping at corners and offering her artwork to those who would spare her a glance. They rarely did. To them, she was invisible—a broken woman in tattered clothes, with sunken cheeks and bones pressing against her pale skin. Her dark brown eyes, once full of passion and life, were now hollow, empty, mirroring the desolation that had become her existence.
She stopped in front of a small crowd, showing her paintings, trying to find her voice. "Please… these are for sale. I just need enough to—"
