The stench of sweat, burnt tires, and cheap alcohol hung over the Sanchez shack like an old curse thick, suffocating, and unwilling to die. The slums of East Los Angeles were noisy with sirens, arguments, and babies crying like they already knew the world was against them.
Dolce Sanchez moved through it all with her head held high. Her hair, long and black as midnight, was tied in a thick braid down her back. Her eyes sharp, defiant had a spark that life had tried and failed to extinguish. Her patched skirt brushed against her knees as she walked barefoot down the dusty road, a small paper bag of groceries cradled in her arm. She had just enough for her grandmother's medicine barely.
She had planned to use the rest of her savings to buy fabric scraps tomorrow.
That was the plan. Until she walked into the shack and everything went dark. The first thing she noticed was the tin. Open.
Empty.
She dropped the bag on the floor. Her body moved before her brain caught up, flipping over the mattress, pulling apart the wooden plank beneath it like she might have made a mistake. But she didn't. She never did when it came to her money. That tin had over six hundred dollars. Money she begged for, cleaned shoes for, starved for. Gone.
Her chest tightened as her eyes darted across the room and landed on him. Her father. Ramon Sanchez. Shirtless, bloated from beer and bad choices, his legs sprawled across a crate like he was some forgotten king of filth. He was snoring. A nearly empty gin bottle dangled between his fingers.
"You took it," she said, voice low. Her hands were shaking. "You took my money, Papa."
He stirred but didn't open his eyes. "I've been saving that money for eight months. Do you know how many nights I didn't eat just to keep it safe?"
Still nothing.
Dolce moved closer and kicked the crate he was sleeping on. It rattled under him. His eyes blinked open bloodshot, confused. "What?"
"My savings!" she snapped. "Gone! You took them!" He sat up and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "So what if I did?"
Dolce's breath caught. "You bastard."
"I needed it," he said with a shrug. "Your grandmother's medicine. The rent. Food."
"You never pay for anything," she hissed. "Don't you dare use Grandma as an excuse."
"I'm your father," he growled, standing now, unsteady but full of false pride. "You live under my roof—"
"Roof?" she laughed bitterly, her hands clenched into fists. "This place leaks more than your drunk mouth. I begged on the streets, Papa. I fought rats for space. And you stole the one thing that was mine. "What are you gonna do?" he sneered. "Leave? Starve?"
"I will leave," she said. "But not yet."
Because behind her father's slurred threats, behind the broken door and the emptiness of her dreams, lay the one thing that still mattered: her grandmother.
Dolce turned and moved to the small back room where the air smelled faintly of menthol and boiled herbs. The old woman lay on a thin mattress, her face sunken and pale, her lips dry, but her eyes still held warmth.
"Dolce?" she rasped.
"I'm here, Abuela," she said, dropping to her knees beside her and pulling the blanket up.
Don't let the devil in," her grandmother whispered, "not even when he's wearing your father's skin."
Dolce swallowed hard. "I won't."
She stayed with her for hours. Fed her slowly. Washed her hands. Sat by her side until her breathing softened into sleep. Then she stood up, walked to the corner of the room, and took out her sewing needle. The one thing her grandmother gave her years ago the only thing her father hadn't stolen.
She held it to her chest like a sword.
"I'm going to make a life from this," she whispered. "And one day, I'll bury this place with it." Outside, the streets buzzed with music and gunshots. Inside, the fire inside Dolce Sanchez grew hotter. This wasn't just survival anymore.
This was war.