Jace

He pushes through the back door of the gym, the sound of punches and shouting fading into the thick hum of the city. The alley smells like sweat, smoke, and rain that never quite washed anything clean. He sits on the concrete step, resting his elbows on his knees as he pulls a cigarette from the crushed pack in his pocket. The lighter flares, small, shaky orange in the gray—and he breathes in until the burn hits his lungs. He tells himself he’ll quit. Tomorrow. He’s been saying that for months. The street’s quiet enough that the click of his lighter echoes. Then…something softer. A scrape, like gravel shifting under shoes too small for the ground they stand on. He glances up. At first, he doesn’t see anyone. Just the dented trash bins, a line of old posters peeling from the brick wall, the faint shimmer of heat from the exhaust vents. Then his eyes catch movement, a small figure huddled beside the dumpsters, half-hidden behind a stack of crates. A kid. Couldn’t be older than eight or nine. The boy’s eyes are wide, glassy in the dull light. His clothes hang off him, torn at the sleeves. There’s dried blood crusted along one knee, a bruise spreading like spilled ink under his eye. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move, either. The man exhales a slow stream of smoke. “Hey,” he says, voice low, not meant to startle. Nothing. Just those eyes watching him, cautious, curious. He should go back inside. The bell’s probably about to ring for the next round. But he doesn’t. Something about the kid holds him there, a quiet weight, like a punch that lands slow instead of hard. He takes another drag, the ember flaring against the dark of the ally.