The shelter provided temporary relief from the storm outside, but Shirley didn't finish his sentence. He didn't have to. The implication was clear—surviving until dawn would be the real challenge, and even then, there were no guarantees.
Ezra shifted uncomfortably. His clothes clung to his skin, soaked through and chilling him to the bone. Every movement sent a shiver down his spine. He needed to dry off and warm up.
While Shirley went to survey the lower floors for signs of monsters seeking refuge, Ezra busied himself gathering scraps of wood and dry twigs scattered around the room.
By now, his body had healed. The broken bones had repaired themselves, and deep wounds and gashes had started to clot and close. Sometimes, being gifted was a blessing.
"I mean, what can I say? It's me we're talking about," he muttered with a faint smirk, shaking his head.
Thankfully, the wood wasn't damp. He tossed it into a pile and knelt beside it, clutching two smooth rocks in his hands. His breath fogged in the cold air, and his fingers trembled slightly. He'd seen people start fires this way before, but he'd never attempted it himself.
'Focus.' He steadied his breathing.' You can do this.'
The first strike was weak, the rocks grinding together with a dull scrape. No spark. Ezra exhaled sharply, narrowing his eyes. Adjusting his grip, he struck again. Still nothing. Frustration bubbled up, but he forced himself to stay calm.
'Patience Ezra.'
On the third try, a faint spark leaped from the rocks, flickering briefly before dying in the cold air. Ezra's heart skipped, hope surging as he struck again. This time, the spark caught on the kindling, glowing faintly.
Leaning in, Ezra held his breath and gently blew on the ember. The leaves began to smoke, the ember glowing brighter. A tiny flame flickered to life. Carefully, he fed it more twigs, coaxing the fire until it grew steady. The soft crackling warmth was a small victory in the otherwise miserable night.
Ezra sat back, a small grin tugging at his lips. It wasn't much, but it was something.
By the time the fire was stable, Shirley returned, carrying a strange carcass slung over his shoulder.
The older man dropped the creature onto the floor with a dull thud, feathers scattering into the air. It looked like a bird—or at least Ezra hoped it was.
"Dinner," Shirley grunted, sinking down beside the fire. Sweat and grime streaked his face, his tattered shirt stained with blood and dirt. He untied the bandage on his arm, letting it fall to the floor with a grimace.
The firelight flickered across Shirley's towering figure, casting deep shadows on his rugged face. Even seated, he seemed to dominate the room, his broad shoulders and barrel chest exuding raw, unyielding strength.
Shirley was built like a fortress. His weathered face, lined with years of battles and burdens, told stories Ezra could only guess at. A thick, grizzled beard covered his jaw, streaked with silver to match the gray in his shoulder-length hair. Damp from the storm, it clung to his temples, giving him an even rougher edge.
His piercing steel-gray eyes, sharp and calculating, flickered in the firelight. They missed nothing—ever watchful, ever alert, like they could strip a person bare with a single glance. His nose was slightly crooked, as if it had been broken more than once, and his beard only partially concealed the faint scar that ran from his cheekbone to the edge of his jaw.
Ezra's gaze lingered on Shirley's hands as they rested on his knees. Calloused and scarred, his fingers bore the marks of countless fights. Even now, after everything, Shirley didn't look tired. Determined, maybe. Stubborn, definitely. But not tired.
Still, something in the heavy sigh he let out hinted at a weariness he would never admit.
Ezra's mind drifted back to the day he first met Shirley.
It wasn't exactly a storybook meeting. Seven-year-old Ezra had been scrawny, wild-haired, and stubborn. His 'house'—if one could even call it that—was a rusted wheelbarrow propped up on broken legs, covered in patchwork fabric and scraps of tarp.
Shirley, in his usual gruff fashion, had apparently 'intruded' into Ezra's territory one evening, stomping around and eventually attempting to sit down in Ezra's wheelbarrow-house.
The wheelbarrow promptly collapsed beneath his weight, folding in on itself with a loud crunch.
The noise had woken Ezra, who had been curled up underneath it. And instead of crying or running away, the little white-haired boy had leapt forward and—without hesitation—sunk his teeth into Shirley's calf.
The yell Shirley let out could have shattered glass.
"Kid! What in the blazes—OW!" Shirley had stumbled backward, hopping on one foot while clutching his leg. "You're like a damn feral cat!"
Ezra, his face red with anger and tears streaming down his cheeks, had shouted, "You broke my house, you big oaf!"
For a moment, Shirley had stared at the tiny boy with wild, glaring eyes, clutching his calf like it might fall off. And then, to Ezra's confusion, the older man had burst into laughter—a deep, hearty sound that echoed through the empty alley.
"Your… house? That was your house?" Shirley had wheezed, shaking his head.
"Kid, that was a tetanus nightmare on wheels!"
Ezra just stared, his eyes brimming with tears.
"Okay, goodness, stop staring at me like that. Those weird eyes of yours are creeping me out."
That only made Ezra cry even harder.
Shirley had no clue what to do.
Despite the rough introduction, Shirley had stuck around after that. He'd offered Ezra some stale bread and water, grumbling about "feral kids biting legs off in alleyways."
But Ezra had eaten the bread anyway.
Over time, Shirley became a fixture in Ezra's life—gruff, stubborn, and occasionally infuriating, but reliable. Ezra didn't say it out loud, but Shirley was the closest thing he'd ever had to family.
As Ezra grew older, Shirley taught him how to survive in District 5. It was nothing short of a miracle that he'd managed to live as long as he had before Shirley found him. Back then, Ezra had been just a frail, white-haired child, surviving on sheer stubbornness and scraps. He'd scavenge whatever he could—rats from the alleyways, spoiled food tossed into trash heaps, or the occasional piece of moldy bread handed out by guilt-ridden residents.
Most children in District 5 didn't make it past the age of ten. Illness, starvation, or the harsh realities of street life usually claimed them long before then. The poor hygiene, constant exposure to disease, and lack of proper shelter made survival more a matter of luck than willpower.
But Ezra had survived—somehow. Whether it was stubborn resilience, a streak of good fortune, or something else entirely, he couldn't say. All he knew was that Shirley had come into his life at the right time, dragging him away from the brink of an early grave and teaching him how to fight, steal, and adapt in a world that offered him nothing.
But outside, the storm still raged, and the monsters still prowled.