Chapter Text
Han slid over the wooden crate, splinters stabbing into his hand — nearly missing the fingers reaching for him. He didn't dare look back as he heard the man tumble over the crates and shout. He stayed in the shadows, ducking down side streets and back alleys, hoping to lose the man tailing him.
His chest was tight from the running, forcing his body to slow down. Once he felt it was safe, he collapsed against a cold wall behind a building. He was gasping for air, clutching the small amount of food he stole to his chest. He looked down at his hands, raw and streaked with blood. The crates did more damage than he thought.
He ran his fingers over his bloody palm, his face scrunching in pain. His mouth was dry — swallowing his own spit felt more like scraping sandpaper against his throat. It's more difficult than you think to come across fresh water, especially if you live in ignorant bliss.
He pushed himself off the ground using his knuckles, wincing when his fingertips touched his palms. He wobbled on his weak legs; his head was pounding. When he was back up, he had to lean against the wall for a minute so he wouldn’t pass out. He pulled his black beanie down further and made his way home.
He peeled back a piece of flimsy metal and stepped into the dark room. This building was long abandoned — it had no electricity, no water, and was basically falling apart. In the corner lay a thin blanket spread out on the floor, along with his backpack, which he used as a pillow. He limped over and sat on the old fabric, which did little to soften the cold concrete beneath him. He pulled off his beanie and tossed it next to him, running his fingers through his sweaty hair.
He unzipped his backpack and pulled out discolored bandage wrappings, setting the roll aside. He moved his water bottle closer to him and pulled up his sleeve, and inspected his hand. His nose scrunched. He managed to pull out the big splinters, but didn’t care to work on the small ones. He winced as he poured water over his palm.
"Fuck…”
He grabbed the wrappings and secured them tightly around his palm — using his teeth to cut them away from the roll. He ran his unbandaged hand over his face and sighed. His back ached like hell, his hand throbbed, and his feet were wrecked from running — his tattered shoes did nothing for him anymore — not to mention they were a size too small. He usually wasn’t that careless when stealing, but his mind had been caught up in other things. He hadn’t even noticed the vendor returning to his stall.
He didn’t know what time it was, but he knew it would be dark soon… Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a crumpled piece of paper and unfolded it. He had to do it; he knows he does. He looked it over once more, then put it right back into his pocket and curled up on his blanket.
His body ached, and his eyelids were heavy. All he needs is some sleep — to let his body and mind rest for a little.
Han’s eyes shot open, a beam of light slamming into his face. “Hey buddy,” the voice was deep and clipped. The light left his face, allowing his eyes to adjust. The double vision went away, but Han was still disoriented. He managed to pick up on a few words, but the rest was just noise.
“bum… trespassing…can’t…here.” All Han could muster up were mumbled apologies as he sat up, his eyesight still slightly blurry. The cop was getting more impatient and grabbed Han's arm, pulling him to his feet roughly. The lack of food and water made him immensely dizzy, but the cop's rough hand against his arm kept him upright. The cop said something else, but Han didn’t catch it— that didn’t help the cop’s annoyance.
Han stumbled for a moment and kept his head down. “M’sorry, really, sir—I’ll leave right away,” now was really not the time for him to be getting arrested; he had things to do. He leaned over and shoved his “blanket” into his backpack, pulling his beanie on, and stood back up on wobbly legs—bowing to the cop before leaving.
It was barely light outside, the sun just coming up. He squinted at the sunrise, letting the sun warm him up for a second. He pulled out the crumbled piece of paper from his pocket, and an address was written. It wasn’t far—thank god. A 35-minute walk, give or take. Before moving on, he dropped onto a bench near a quiet park. Kids walked to school in small clusters, while a few moms pushed toddlers on the swingset, their laughter floating on the cold morning air.
Han watched them for a moment, expression unreadable. Han wondered how different the outcome of his life would’ve been if he had gotten to experience that.
15 years ago—age 7
Han looked down at his hands, coated in dirt from playing alone. He’d walked to the park by himself — and he was proud of that. His parents didn’t notice. They never did. He looked around the park, his stomach twisting as he watched boys his age playing tag. No one ever invited him to join. Then again…he never asked.
He can still remember the disappointment on his teachers’ faces when they saw him sitting alone. But he couldn’t help it. Every time he tried to talk to other kids, his mouth wouldn’t work. His hands got sweaty. Eventually, the other kid would get bored with waiting and walk away.
Of course, he couldn’t blame the other kids; he would get bored with himself, too.
Han stood up, wiping the dirt on his pants—something he knew he would be scolded for later.
He took off towards home, going as fast as his little legs could take him. The doors were locked, just like he’d left them. He dropped to his hands and knees and crawled through the doggy door — another thing he was secretly proud of thinking up.
He needed to be proud of himself for things.
After all, no one else was.
He pulled his knees up, looking at his wrapped hand. He slowly unwrapped it, clenching his teeth as he looked at the damage. The small cuts have crusted over, leaving mean-looking scabs. Han hoped to god it wasn’t getting infected.
He stood up and looked around, spotting a public water fountain. He stumbled over to it and shoved his mouth above the spout — using his uninjured hand, he pressed the button. He gulped down the water, soothing his dry throat. It tasted so good he could cry. He picked his head up and shoved his cut-up hand under the stream of water, trying his best to clean it up.
After it was as clean as it would get, he walked back over to the bench and tightened the bandage on his palm with the last of the medical wrap. Then, from the edge of his thin blanket, he tore a strip of fabric and wound it around his other hand. It wasn’t injured—but after yesterday, he wasn’t taking chances.
He stood up, flexing his fingers, then looked at the address once more. Taking back alleys and cutting through empty lots, he shaved ten minutes off the walk. After 25 minutes, he looked up. He didn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t um…this. He looked down at the messy ink again…the address seems right.
The building looked abandoned—rundown and half-eaten by ivy. As he approached, he pulled his beanie lower over his ears and forehead. Two men stood out front—both bigger than him, though most people are. One had a thick mustache, the other was clean-shaven — both looked equally as mean.
Han kept his head down as he neared. The clean-shaven man sighed. The other flicked ash from the end of his cigarette. When Han finally looked up, the man blew smoke straight into his face.
Han turned his head, waving it away with a sharp breath. A mocking laugh followed. He lifted his head again, jaw tight, annoyance written all over his face.
“Am I in the right place or not?” he asked, voice blunt, no patience left.
The clean-shaven man smirked. “I dunno. Are you?”
Han took the paper from his pocket and showed it to them. “This is the address here, is it not?”
They looked at each other, then the one smoking dropped his cigarette — using his foot to extinguish it in the dirt. He opened the door behind them; it creaked as it opened — Han fought the urge to cover his ears. He walked past them, keeping his head down.
“All the way to the end of the hallway, make a left, then down to the basement.” Han couldn’t tell who spoke, but it was clear where they wanted him to go.
Han walked down the dark hallway, jumping back as he stepped on an old picture frame. He looks down at the shattered glass, a small family — two parents and a young boy that couldn’t be older than 8.
He picked up the photo, dusting the glass off. The dad had a strong hold on the boy's shoulder — the mom had a gentle hold on his arm. The boy’s eyes were empty, not even a smile on his face. The mom smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. The dad didn’t bother to smile.
He laid the photo down on a small side table and continued to walk. He nearly knocked over a vase when a rat ran along the floor next to his feet, squealing as it went past. He wrapped his arms around his torso for any source of comfort as he neared the end.
He turned left and saw a door, the white paint was peeling, and there was a small hole in the wall adjacent to it from it previously being slammed, with no stopper to stop the door handle. Han wondered how long ago that was… it could have been last week, or 3 years ago — there's no way to tell.
9 years ago—age 13
The day started relatively tame; he woke up earlier than his parents and went to school without anyone making a fuss. He stepped into his English class, and the teacher walked around passing out test grades, her heels making an obnoxious clicking sound. When she got to Han’s desk, her face turned to pity as she handed it to him upside down.
“Stay after class so I can talk to you.” She said in a hushed tone.
All Han could do was nod, not trusting his voice.
When the bell rang, he sat in his seat — his stomach felt like it was filled with stones. The teacher used her finger to signal him to come to her desk. He stood up shakily — he doesn’t eat lunch in school, he can’t afford the school lunch, and doesn’t have enough food at home to bring a homemade lunch. He walked up to her desk and sat down across from her. She started speaking, but he could barely hear her.
“This is the 3rd test you’ve failed. I'm afraid I'll have to contact your parents.” She said, typing something on her computer and looking at him from over her red glasses.
Han caught that part. He stared at her, knowing there was no way he could convince her otherwise. His ears buzzed; whatever she was saying after that was going in one ear and out the other — his mind preoccupied.
Maybe he can spend the night at a friend's house?
Maybe his parents won’t care as much as he thinks..
Maybe..
He knew none of these were options; he had to face it head-on. When the teacher dismissed him, he didn’t even hear her till the second time. She rolled her eyes as he stood up, muttering something about being “disrespectful” and “kids these days.”
He left the building and began his walk home. Now, he would be late getting home, and he had to deal with the consequences of the test. It was quiet when he opened the door; the house was dark, not even the curtains open. By now, his mom was typically cooking dinner. This only elevated his nerves. He didn’t waste time going to his room. When he passed his parents' room, he could hear his father on the phone, so he walked quickly.
He made sure that when he closed his door, he did so quietly. He put down his backpack and… he heard footsteps, and not small ones either. He bolted across his room, locking his door. When he got back to his bed, his dad was already yelling, trying to push through.
His strength broke the door and shoved it into the wall, creating a giant hole. Though that didn’t stop him, the large man grabbed him and threw him to the ground. Han’s head hit the corner of his nightstand, and everything went black.
He shuddered at the memory, pushing down the bile rising in his throat. He took a breath before opening the door. It was dark as he walked down the stairs, goosebumps running over his arms — grateful that he pulled on his green hoodie before leaving. He started to hear voices as he walked farther, many voices.
When his feet touched the concrete floor, he looked around. Many different people crowded the basement, men and women of all ages — most didn’t care as he walked in, others stared, causing his hands to sweat. His eyes stayed down as he walked in — the door up the stairs slammed shut and was locked.
There was silence for a split second before everyone started yelling, and some ran up the stairs, banging on the door. Han stayed where he was, looking around the room for any way to get out. Another guy, around his age but much taller, and shoulder-length black hair, was doing the same. A voice boomed in the room, and everyone looked up, slowly finding speakers in the corners of the room.
“Welcome!”