BAM!
Lyrius hit the ground. Hard.
His body screamed in agony, every nerve set ablaze by Oliver's relentless assault.
His breath came in ragged gasps, the taste of blood thick on his tongue.
The world around him blurred.
Hell.
No.
It was worse than hell.
The pain, the torment, the suffering—nothing compared to what he had already endured.
Nothing compared to the streets where he had learned what it meant to be abandoned.
The things I endured.
The pain I endured.
The hatred I endured.
The beatings I took.
A life where every breath was a battle.
A life where hunger clawed at his insides, gnawing away at his sanity.
He had eaten whatever he could to survive—rats, cockroaches, moldy scraps tossed into the gutters.
He had scavenged through filth, fought with stray dogs over rotting meat.
Survival was an ugly thing.
But for what?
That question haunted him every night.
Why had he been forced to suffer like that? Why had fate decided to crush him beneath its heel?
