1. Boy With No Name <1>

Blood dripped down from the corner of his mouth as another blow landed on his face, sending him crashing into the nearest cabinet. The teenage boy groaned as he hit the floor, his body folding against the cold wood, and he bit his lip to suppress the scream clawing at his throat. Standing over him, holding a bottle of beer in one hand, was his father— a monstrous figure who looked down on him with the kind of disdain reserved for something that should've never existed.

"That's it, you little piece of shit. Next time you dare come home late again, I'll fucking murder you," his father snarled. His voice was as rough as the man himself. He was a behemoth of a man, his body was built like a bear— huge and imposing. His chin was square and rugged, his face covered in stubbled, unkempt facial hair. His white tank top strained over his muscles, and his shorts barely clung to his thick frame.

The boy didn't respond immediately. He couldn't. His ribs were bruised, his head still reeling from the pain. Weakly, he managed to lift his gaze, eyes barely visible beneath tangled, unkempt black hair. His breath rattled and his heart palpitated in his chest as he coughed violently, his hands trembling. He could barely whisper, but it was enough. "Fuck you," he spat, barely more than a breath.

His father's face twisted in fury, and without a word, he grabbed the boy's hair, yanking his head back so hard that it felt like his skull might tear from his spine. The stench of alcohol hit his face like a suffocating fog. His father's rage-filled eyes locked onto his, filled with malice, as if the boy had been the one to wrong him.

"You say what, you little prick?" the man howled, his breath thick with alcohol as he squeezed the boy's throat. "Say it again, I dare you!"

The boy's heart thudded in his chest repeatedly. He was nothing but a punching bag in this place— a ghost of the life he never had. His body was battered and broken, but something in him snapped— hopefully. With every ounce of defiance he could muster, he spat in his father's face, the words coming out like poison.

"Who cares, you asshole?" he hissed through clenched teeth. "You're not even my real dad."

The man roared in fury, his fist crashing into the boy's face like a freight train. The impact sent him tumbling to the ground, the world spinning as his body crumpled in a heap of broken flesh and shattered pride. "You ungrateful little shit!" his father shouted, his voice thick with a rage born from some twisted place. "Is this how you treat me? After I took you in? You were a worthless little gutter rat when I found you! And I took you in! Me, and my wife, too!"

The boy's breath came in gasps as pain burned through his body, a fire that seared his bones. He felt his own blood mixing with his rage. The words that escaped him felt as though they were tearing him apart from the inside. "You mean that bitch who fucked you over and stole your money?" he spat back, his voice hoarse, bitter.

The man's rage flared, and he pummeled the boy again, each strike harder than the last. "Shut the fuck up!" he roared, his fists landing with bone-crushing force. The boy couldn't shield himself. All he could do was take it, like he always did. But this time, the words stung more than the blows.

The boy's story wasn't one of love or family. He had no memories of the people who should've cared for him, no history to be proud of, no name he could call his. He was nothing but an orphan, left to rot in the cold streets of the city. His existence began on a rainy night, the kind that soaked you to your marrow. Or so he was told. Abandoned and alone, he had been found by a man— a so-called "father," a failed music director, clinging to the last remnants of his dignity.

Finding children even babies lying in the lesser streets was nothing new, caring for a child while surviving yourself was a hassle to some, others had their own reasons.

The man had taken him in, not out of any sense of fatherly affection, but because the government would send a small stipend for every child placed in his care. The man had never loved him, never saw him as anything more than a tool. He would use the boy to steal and scrape by, sending him out as a pickpocket, a street rat, a thing to be used without restrain.

And then there was the woman— the concubine, the one who destroyed whatever semblance of normalcy the boy could have had. She was just as cruel, just as rotten, exploiting her position until she stole the man's money and ran off. The music director's business went to hell, his funds dried up, and the boy was left to suffer the consequences. As if things were not hard enough from the get go.

Years of abuse followed— years where the boy's body became a canvas for bruises, cuts, and scars. He was a ghost, an empty shell with no name, no identity, no purpose. He had seen the streets, felt the cold touch of the world's indifference. The only reason he didn't run was because he feared what might be worse— sleeping on the streets with the killers and kidnappers who lurked in every shadow or facing a monster he could not escape from.

But more than anything, the boy craved one thing: a name. Something to call his own. A label, an identity. Anything. But all he was ever called were insults— bastard, prick, demon. He wasn't a person. He was an object to be thrown away when it suited them.

What did he have left to live for? What was the point of enduring all of this? The pain, the hatred, the emptiness? There was nothing. His own family is he had one left him for dead, he never once felt what love was. The boy just wanted it all to end. But there was a flicker inside him— a flicker of something that wouldn't let him die.

Not yet. Maybe someday. But not today.

A/N: Thank you for taking up my work, I hope you had a nice read.