One evening, Lucky followed his close friends—Sogo, Muri, and Lati—to a busy junction where they had planned to snatch a phone from a distracted commuter. It was supposed to be quick. Easy. But the commuter fought back, and in the scuffle, Lucky got slashed by a broken bottle.
They ran. Lucky bled. His shirt soaked through by the time he reached home. His mother's scream cut through the dark as she saw him. That night, there were no words, only tears. She nursed his wound in silence, her hands trembling.
That pain lingered. Not the wound—the shame.
The next day, he avoided his friends. He couldn't sleep. He kept replaying the moment in his mind, over and over. "This isn't who I am," he told his reflection in a cracked mirror.