The orphanage was quiet at this hour, the other children tucked away in their rooms, but the air still carried the faint echoes of past laughter, of whispered conversations, of a life Killa had never quite belonged to.
He wanted to keep walking.
To slip away into the comfort of his small, dark room and let the night swallow him whole.
But—
"Killa."
Her voice was soft. Almost fragile.
It made him pause.
Maria was still standing by the door, her hands clasped tightly together in front of her habit.
Killa exhaled through his nose, turning slightly.
She wasn't looking at him.
Not at first.
Her eyes were distant, staring somewhere past him, past the hallway, past the years that had led them both to this moment. Then, slowly, she blinked and met his gaze.
Her lips trembled.
And then—
Maria cried.
It wasn't the quiet, graceful kind of crying. It wasn't the kind that could be mistaken for silent prayer or solemn mourning.
It was raw. Messy. Desperate.
She clutched her hands to her chest, her whole frame trembling.
"Killa…" Her voice cracked, her breath coming in uneven shudders.
"Please," she whispered, "stop using your hands for everything."
Killa stood frozen.
His chest tightened, something deep inside him twisting for the first time in his 9 years of life.
Maria shook her head, her tears slipping down her cheeks. "I— I don't know what else to do anymore," she admitted, her voice breaking.
"Every time I hear your name, it's because of another fight. Another injury. Another broken nose or bloody lip. And I—I can't—"
She pressed a hand over her mouth, trying to steady herself, but it didn't work.
Her body trembled.
Killa swallowed and hard at that.
He didn't know what to say.
Didn't know how to say anything.
Maria let out a shaky breath, wiping at her face as she tried to compose herself. "You're not— You're not like the others, Killa. You never have been."
Her gaze locked onto his.
"I know why you fight," she whispered.
Killa's jaw tightened.
"I know why you're angry," Maria continued. "But you don't have to prove anything to anyone. You don't have to use your hands to survive."
[Uh, yes he does. That's the whole point of why I'm writing this This.This betch wants to end the novel before we get to the good part]
Killa looked away.
Maria sniffled, shaking her head. "Do you remember the night you came here?"
[Oh my God bruh. How would he know when he was wrapped in bundles of Joyous Poop. Betch grow up. Anyways back to the story.]
His shoulders stiffened.
Maria smiled sadly, her eyes glassy.
"You were left at the doorstep. Like so many of the others. Wrapped in a blanket too thin for the cold. Just a baby. So small. So quiet."
Her voice was distant again, lost in the past.
"I picked you up, and you just—stared at me," she murmured. "Didn't cry. Didn't fuss. Just… stared. Like you were already trying to understand the world."
She let out a soft, broken laugh.
"You were so tiny. And I remember thinking—How could someone so small be left behind?"
Silence.
Killa's fists clenched at his sides.
Maria's gaze softened.
"You're not alone, Killa," she whispered. "You never were. And I—" She took a deep, shuddering breath.
"I just don't want to lose you."
Her words landed heavier than any punch he'd ever taken since he could take one.
His expression wavered.
His fingers twitched.
For the first time in a long time, Killa felt something other than rage clawing at his chest.
Something unfamiliar.
Something like guilt.
Maria wiped at her eyes again, trying to regain her composure.
Killa swallowed, his throat dry.
He wanted to say something.
To tell her that he understood.
That he was sorry.
That he didn't mean to make her cry.
But the words wouldn't come.
So instead—
His shoulders eased.
His fists uncurled.
His expression softened.
Just a little.
Maria noticed.
Her lips quirked into a wobbly smile, her tears still glistening in the dim light.
She exhaled, pressing a hand to her heart.
For now, it was enough.
And as Killa finally turned and made his way down the hall, his footsteps slow, his chest still heavy—
Maria watched him go, her heart aching with hope.
Killa pushed the door open and stepped inside, the familiar creak of the wooden floor beneath his feet grounding him.
The room was just as he had left it—small, bare, quiet.
The dim glow of the streetlights outside barely reached through the window, casting long, restless shadows across the walls.
He shut the door behind him, the soft click of the latch sealing him away from the rest of the orphanage.
For a moment, he just stood there, his back against the wood, eyes half-lidded, breath slow and measured.
His body ached.
Not just from the fights, but from the weight of the night itself.
The adrenaline had worn off, leaving behind exhaustion that curled around his bones like a heavy chain.
His arms felt leaden, his legs stiff, his knuckles raw and pulsing with a dull, steady throb.
Killa exhaled through his nose, shoving off the door.
His steps were slow as he crossed the room, each one dragging just a little more than the last.
He didn't bother undressing. Didn't even bother pulling back the thin, worn-out blanket.
He just sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor.
The fight. The old man. The gym. The ambush.
Maria's tears.
It all swirled in his mind, fragments of the night refusing to settle. His thoughts buzzed, restless and sharp, but his body—his body was finally giving in.
His shoulders slumped. His head dipped slightly.
The mattress sank as he finally, finally lay back, his limbs going slack.
The ceiling blurred above him, swallowed by the creeping haze of exhaustion.
His breaths slowed, deepened. His eyelids drooped, fluttering once, twice—
Then closed.
And for the first time that night, the world faded.
And sleep took him.