Nicholas woke to the sound of shouting. The walls trembled as voices clashed in the next room, each one louder and angrier than the last. He groggily sat up, his tiny frame sinking into the worn mattress beneath him. For a moment, he clung to the hope that this was all a dream—a vivid nightmare that he could wake up from if he just pinched himself hard enough. But the stinging cold of the room, the itchy wool blanket wrapped around him, and the faint taste of iron in his mouth made it painfully clear: this was real.
"I'm not staying here," he muttered under his breath. His voice, still shrill and unfamiliar, grated on his nerves.
He shuffled out of the bedroom and into the chaos beyond. The cramped living space was barely bigger than a closet, with peeling wallpaper and a single flickering bulb casting uneven light. Two other children were locked in a heated argument at the center of the room.
The older boy, probably about twelve, loomed over a scrawny girl who couldn't have been more than eight. His fists were clenched, his face twisted in frustration. The girl held her ground, defiant despite the tears streaming down her face.
"You stole it! I saw you!" the boy shouted.
"I didn't!" the girl shot back, her voice cracking.
"You're a liar!"
Before Nicholas could process what was happening, the woman—Sarah, he remembered—stormed into the room. "Both of you, stop it!" she snapped, her voice carrying the sharp edge of someone too exhausted for patience.
The boy hesitated, but his glare didn't waver. "She took my money, Ma! The coins I saved for the week!"
Sarah sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Ella, is that true?"
The girl's eyes darted between Sarah and the boy, her lower lip trembling. "I didn't mean to! I just… I just wanted to buy bread. For all of us."
Nicholas felt a strange pang in his chest. It wasn't guilt—he hadn't done anything. But the desperation in the girl's voice hit something deep inside him. Bread. She had stolen for bread. The very idea was absurd to him. In his old life, food was a given, an afterthought. Here, it was a battleground.
"Give it back, Ella," Sarah said softly but firmly.
Ella hesitated, then reached into her pocket and handed over a handful of coins, each one worn and dull. The boy snatched them from her hand with a triumphant sneer.
"Enough," Sarah said, cutting off whatever cruel remark the boy had been about to make. "There's no room for this in this house. We're all we've got. You understand?"
Both children nodded, but the resentment in their eyes lingered. Nicholas stood frozen, watching the scene unfold like a spectator at a play.
"And you," Sarah said, turning her attention to him. Her expression softened, but her voice carried an undercurrent of weariness. "You hungry, kid?"
Nicholas' stomach churned at the question. Hunger. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt hungry. In his old life, he ate because he was supposed to, not because he needed to. Now, the hollow ache in his stomach was impossible to ignore.
"Yeah," he said quietly.
Sarah gave him a small nod. "I'll fix something up. It's not much, but it'll do."
Later, as they sat around the battered wooden table, eating watery soup and stale bread, Nicholas studied the faces around him. The boy, whose name he learned was Daniel, ate with quick, angry movements, like he was afraid someone might take his meal away. Ella picked at her bread, her eyes darting nervously toward Daniel every few seconds. Sarah, exhausted but resolute, ate in silence, her gaze distant.
This was his family now. Not the polished, smiling faces of his old life—the ones that graced magazine covers and charity gala photos. These were people shaped by struggle, by scarcity, by a life Nicholas couldn't have imagined before today.
He felt a surge of anger—at fate, at the universe, at whoever or whatever had torn him from his life of comfort and thrown him into this mess. But beneath the anger was something else. A flicker of curiosity about these people and the world they inhabited. For now, that was all he could manage—a distant interest rather than any kind of connection.
That night, as he lay on the same threadbare mattress, staring at the same cracked ceiling, he tried to push away the memories of his old life. Survival was all that mattered now. Protecting anyone else? That was a luxury he couldn't afford yet. Not until he found his footing.
Because Nicholas Alden—or whatever this life chose to call him—wasn't built to give up. Not now. Not ever.