The first rays of sunlight crept through the attic's cracked window, painting the dust in golden streaks. Arin woke up shivering, his stomach already aching with hunger. Yesterday felt like a fever dream-waking up in a world both familiar and strange, discovering his "Observe" ability, and realizing just how unforgiving these streets could be.
He sat up, hugging his knees for warmth. I can't just survive on scraps forever, he thought. I need help. I need… someone. But trust here was rare, and he was a stranger with nothing to offer but his own two hands.
Still, he refused to give in to despair. He'd always believed that kindness, even in small doses, could open doors. Maybe if he helped someone, they'd help him in return. Maybe, just maybe, kindness was a currency he could afford.
So Arin set out, determined to make himself useful. The market was already alive with noise and color-vendors shouting prices, children darting between stalls, the occasional Pokémon weaving through the crowd. Arin watched for anyone who looked approachable, anyone who might need a hand.
He spotted an old woman struggling with a heavy bag of rice. "Can I help you with that?" he offered, voice gentle. She eyed him warily, then shook her head and shuffled away, clutching her bag tighter.
Undeterred, he tried sweeping the steps outside a bakery. The owner, a round-faced man with flour on his apron, frowned. "Don't need help, kid. Move along." At a fruit stall, Arin helped a vendor gather up spilled oranges, but the man just grunted and turned away.
It was the same everywhere. He fixed a wobbly cart for a grocer, shooed a wild Rattata away from a shopkeeper's Meowth, and even picked up trash along the gutters. Sometimes he got a nod, sometimes a muttered thanks, but never more. Most people just looked past him, as if he were invisible.
By midday, Arin's hope was starting to fray. He found a patch of shade beneath a battered billboard and watched the city swirl around him. Families shared meager lunches, trainers swapped stories, and street kids played with their Pokémon. There was a sense of community here-a web of relationships that he was on the outside of, looking in.
He tried again in the afternoon, fetching water for a tired nurse at a street clinic. She thanked him with a weary smile, but her hands were full and her eyes already moving on to the next patient. Arin felt like a ghost, drifting through someone else's life.
Three days passed like this. Each morning, he woke up hungry but determined. Each night, he trudged back to the attic with nothing more than sore feet and a heavier heart. The city was relentless, and kindness was in short supply.
On the third evening, as the sun dipped behind the city's crumbling skyline, Arin wandered the outskirts of Fuchsia. The air was cooler here, tinged with the scent of wild grass and the promise of rain. He walked with no real destination, just letting his feet carry him, lost in his own thoughts.
That's when he heard it-a sharp shout, the unmistakable crash of a Poké Ball, and the growl of a Pokémon. Instinctively, Arin ducked behind a rusted fence, heart hammering in his chest.
Peering through the gaps, he saw a scene that could have come from a nightmare: a thief, tall and desperate, squared off against an older woman with sharp eyes and streaks of gray in her hair. She looked battered but unyielding, a Poké Ball clutched tight in her hand. At her side, a Hitmontop stood ready, blood trickling down its leg.
The thief snarled and sent out a scruffy Mightyena. The two Pokémon clashed-Hitmontop spinning and weaving, Mightyena lunging with snapping jaws. The fight was brutal and quick. The woman's commands were crisp, her Hitmontop responding with practiced precision. With a final, powerful kick, Hitmontop sent the Mightyena crashing into a wall. The thief tried to run, but the woman was faster. She ordered her Pokémon to break the thief's arm-a harsh warning, not a mercy.
When it was over, both woman and Pokémon were left panting and bruised. The thief slumped to the ground, defeated and whimpering.
Arin watched, frozen in place. He felt a strange mix of fear and admiration. The woman was ruthless, but she'd stood her ground. As she leaned on her Hitmontop, Arin saw her wince in pain. Blood stained her sleeve, and her steps faltered.
He hesitated, torn between fear and the stubborn hope that helping others might still mean something in this world. Then, remembering his vow to survive-and his hope for kindness-he stepped out from the shadows.
"Do you… need help?" he asked, his voice small but steady.
The woman's eyes narrowed, but after a moment she nodded. "If you're planning anything, don't. I'm not in the mood."
Arin shook his head and moved to support her, careful not to startle the Hitmontop. Together, they began the slow walk back toward the city, leaving the battered thief behind as dusk settled over Fuchsia.
As they walked, Arin couldn't help but wonder that this was just another lesson in how hard this world would be, and it will probably only get harder! He sighed in his mind and continued supporting the old lady to the nearest hospital before night time.
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