The rain never stopped in that part of the city.It ran through the cracks of broken roofs, flooding the alleys that smelled of metal and cigarettes.
A boy sat there, his hoodie drenched, a small sandwich in his hands.People passed by, ignoring him — not out of cruelty, but because they were fighting their own battles.
His name was Alex.At least, it used to be.
The boy didn't speak much. He didn't smile. He just watched the puddles ripple as the rain fell harder.Every drop reminded him of the night his parents died — gunshots, shouting, blood dripping into a dirty gutter.
He had run that night, barefoot, slipping through the dark until his legs gave out.No one came for him. No one ever would.
He looked up as thunder cracked across the sky."…Xeno," he whispered.That was the name he gave himself — a new identity for a boy who refused to stay broken.