Poki – Built From Nothing

Poki stared at the cracked ceiling of the abandoned warehouse, rain drumming on the tin roof like a thousand accusing fingers. Twenty-three years old, and this was his kingdom—a pile of moldy cardboard for a bed, a rusted bucket for piss, and the distant hum of the city that didn't give a damn. Nithalla, they called him. Useless. The word stuck like tar in his brain, spat by the chaiwala who'd chase him off for begging scraps, or the factory guards who'd laugh as he scavenged dumpsters at night.He rolled onto his side, the cold seeping through his threadbare shirt. No family to claim him, no school that bothered after he dropped out at fourteen. Skills? He could sleep through hunger pangs and dodge beatings from drunks. That was it. Why am I even breathing? The thought gnawed, familiar as the rats skittering in the shadows. He'd tried once—picked up a broom at a roadside stall, swept for hours until his hands blistered. The owner tossed him a single rupee and said, "Go play in traffic, boy. You're scaring customers." Poki had walked away, not angry, just empty. Numb.Tonight, though, the numbness cracked. He sat up, fists clenched until his nails drew blood. The richest bastards in the world—Musk, Ambani, those glowing faces on billboards—slept in palaces built on dreams he couldn't even imagine. They had everything. He had shit. But what if I take it? What if I claw it from them? The idea hit like a slap, reckless and stupid. No lottery ticket, no hidden genius uncle. Just him, against the world. Rise from zero. Make them see him. Force them to choke on his name.He laughed, a hollow bark that echoed off the walls. You'll fail. Like always. Lazy sack of bones. Self-hatred surged, hot and familiar. Memories flooded: skipping days at the scrap yard because getting up felt impossible; watching kids half his age hustle newspapers while he sat numb under a banyan tree. Useless. Waste. But beneath the loathing, something twisted. A man with nothing left couldn't lose more. No chains. No fear. Dangerous, whispered a voice in his head, small but sharpening.Poki stood, legs shaky from weeks of half-meals. Outside, the storm raged. He stepped into it, rain masking the tears he wouldn't admit to. First step: survive tomorrow. Find work. Any work. Learn something—anything—that wasn't dying slow. No grand plan, just the obsession blooming like a bruise. They won't ignore me forever.But as thunder cracked, doubt clawed back. Who are you kidding, Poki? You'll quit by dawn.