The driver spat another insult before speeding off, leaving Atticus standing there, his shadow stretching long and thin under the streetlights.

  He moved toward the nearest building and stood under the eaves, but the wind was strong, sending icy raindrops straight at him. Another sharp chill crawled into his bones.

  Slowly, he crouched down, pressing his head against the cold suitcase beside him, his arms wrapping around himself in a weak attempt to fight the cold.

  His voice was barely a whisper. “…Mom, I don’t feel so good.”

  “Atticus! Atticus!” The voice jolted him. “Why are you here? Get up—hurry, you’re drenched!” It sounded so real.

  He thought he was hallucinating. But despite himself, his head lifted.

  Clarissa stood in front of him, holding an umbrella.

  She was still wearing her thin pajamas, a beige knitted shawl draped loosely over her shoulders. The rain had already dampened the edges of the fabric.

  She crouched down, reaching for his arm, trying to pull him up.

  Atticus blinked, stunned.

  But in the next second, his daze turned to ice. He jerked his arm free. His voice was cold, sharper than the storm raging around them.

  “Go back.” His words cut like steel. “Don’t fucking concern yourself with me.” His tone—his expression—felt as frigid as winter in March.

  They weren’t from the same world. She was a daughter of wealth, untouched by the filth of reality. A pristine cloud high above. And him? He was dirt. Rotting in the mud. Trampled over and over again until nothing remained. If she got too close, she’d only stain herself.

  Clarissa met his deadened gaze, and pain shot through her chest. She bit her lip, refusing to back down. “Atticus… no matter what’s happened, come inside. At least dry off first, or you’ll get sick.”

  Something flickered in his eyes. A raw emotion, too quick to catch. But in the next instant, he buried it beneath ice.

  He stared at her, his voice flat. “…And what the hell does that have to do with you?” His tone was cutting, merciless. “Who do you think you are to me?”

  Clarissa opened her mouth, but the words didn’t come. “Atticus, don’t do this,” she whispered. “Let’s just talk, okay? We can figure something out. There’s always a way.”

  “Talk?” Atticus let out a hollow laugh. In the darkness, his eleven-year-old frame looked impossibly small, but his eyes— His eyes held nothing but endless, suffocating despair.

  He took a slow step forward, locking his gaze onto hers. “My parents are dead.” His voice was eerily calm. “People look at me like I’m a disease.”

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  “Every time I step outside, someone spits at me. Calls me filth.” “The landlord kicked me out—said I couldn’t stay because I was carrying an urn.” “Not a single fucking hotel will take me in.”

  His voice rose, cracking under the weight of it all. He stared at Clarissa, his expression raw, furious, broken. “So tell me, how exactly do you expect me to fix that?” “Tell me, Clarissa—how the fuck am I supposed to solve this?”

  Clarissa staggered back. Atticus watched as she instinctively stepped back. The bitter smile on his lips deepened.

  “See? Even you’re afraid of me.” His voice was quiet, almost amused, but laced with something far darker. “Only people who’ve never truly suffered can look at someone drowning and say, ‘Don’t give up, there’s still hope.’” He scoffed, shaking his head. “You have no idea what real despair feels like, Clarissa. In the face of reality, kindness is fucking useless.”

  With that, he turned, intent on walking past her, disappearing into the rain.

  But the next second— She grabbed his hand.

  “Don’t go.”

  Clarissa didn’t know what the hell was wrong with her. She had been having these strange, vivid dreams lately—dreams she couldn't explain.

  There were countless people in the world, countless souls she would pass by without a second thought.

  But Atticus— If she let him go now, she knew she’d never forgive herself.

  The fragments of those dreams burned in her mind. She could feel the raw, suffocating emotions—the overwhelming loneliness, the unbearable weight of hopelessness.

  And in those dreams, Atticus had been even more broken than he was now. Because no one had helped him. No one had given a damn.

  If… if someone had—wouldn’t things have been different?

  Her whole body trembled, a sharp pain piercing her skull. She was terrified. Terrified of what she was feeling, terrified of what she was doing. But her hands wouldn’t let go. No matter how much her fingers shook, they refused to release him.

  A cold laugh cut through the storm. Atticus stared at her, his expression twisted with mockery.

  “…You’re fucking hilarious.” His voice was sharp as a blade, slicing straight through her resolve.

  Clarissa met his gaze, her breath catching in her throat.

  “You’re just a na?ve little rich girl, aren’t you?” He let out a dry chuckle. “What, you think this is some fairy tale? That you can just hold my hand and magically fix my life?”

  His smile faded. His voice dropped, low and cruel. “You’re so fucking stupid.”

  Clarissa flinched. “Atticus, I—”

  Before she could finish, he ripped his hand away. The ground was slick. She lost her footing. The world tilted—

  Pain. A sharp sting shot up her palm as she landed on shattered glass.

  Atticus took a step forward instinctively, his fingers twitching at his sides. But just as quickly, his expression hardened again, sealing away the brief flicker of concern.

  His fists clenched. His voice, when it came, was hoarse with something that sounded like both rage and exhaustion.

  “Who the hell do you think you are?” His eyes burned with something dangerous, something raw. “Do you pity me? Is that it? Or are you just playing some fucked-up game? Is this entertaining for you?” His voice cracked as he took a shaky breath.

  “Get out. I don’t need you. I don’t fucking need anyone.” His voice was a desperate, furious snarl, the sound of a wounded animal forced into a corner.

  A thunderclap split the sky.

  For a split second, the lightning illuminated his face— And all the anger, all the aggression— It wasn’t hatred. It was agony.

  Clarissa’s eyes stung with unshed tears. Then—before she could think—she threw her arms around him. The umbrella slipped from her fingers, crashing to the ground. Rain soaked through her thin clothes instantly, but she didn’t care.

  Atticus froze. He had expected her to yell back, to walk away, to give up on him like everyone else had. But instead— She was holding him.

  Her grip was tight, desperate, as if she was afraid he’d slip through her fingers and vanish forever. Blood from her wounded palm stained the collar of his shirt, mixing with the rain.