Rowan's first sensation was pain. A dull, aching throb in his skull, the gnawing emptiness in his stomach, the sharp sting of the cold pressing against his skin. He gasped, his breath coming in shallow, frantic bursts as his eyes snapped open to a world of darkness and damp stone.
Where was he?
Memories flickered through his mind like broken glass. The blinding headlights. The sickening crunch of impact. The world flipping, twisting—
Then, nothing.
Panic surged through him as he scrambled upright, only to find himself tangled in a threadbare coat several sizes too big. His hands—
His hands were too small. His arms too thin. His voice, when he let out a strangled gasp, was high-pitched and unfamiliar.
His heart pounded in his chest, each beat hammering in the undeniable truth.
This wasn't his body.
His breathing hitched, his mind racing in a thousand directions at once. Had he survived? No. That wasn't possible. He remembered dying. He remembered the moment of absolute certainty, the fleeting thought that he wouldn't get another chance.
Yet here he was.
Cold, alone, and starving.
The alley around him smelled of rot and rain, of things left too long to fester. He was surrounded by crumbling brick walls, garbage spilling from rusted bins. A streetlamp flickered at the alley's mouth, casting long, sickly yellow shadows across the pavement.
He pushed himself up on shaking legs, his body swaying with exhaustion. His stomach clenched painfully, a sharp reminder that whatever had happened to him, he hadn't eaten in a long time.
Survival. That was the only thing that mattered now.
The thoughts of what he'd lost—who he had been—could wait.
He stumbled forward, forcing himself into motion, his mind still reeling. The city loomed around him, its streets foreign and unwelcoming. He had no money. No home. No one to call out to.
But someone would help him. They had to.
The first person he approached barely spared him a glance. A woman in a thick coat, her scarf pulled up high against the cold, quickened her steps the moment he opened his mouth to ask for help. The second person, a businessman with a leather briefcase, gave him a single look—disdainful, dismissive—before brushing past him as if he didn't exist.
Rowan's throat tightened. "Please," he tried again, approaching a middle-aged man in a wool hat. "I just need help. I—I don't know where I am."
The man scowled. "Get lost, kid."
Rowan flinched at the harshness in his voice. He hadn't expected kindness, but he hadn't expected to be ignored like this—like he was nothing.
He tried going into a store, drawn by the warmth spilling from its doors. The moment he stepped inside, the clerk behind the counter stiffened. Rowan barely had time to take in the shelves lined with food before a sharp voice cut through the air.
"No loitering! Get out."
"I just—"
"Out."
He was shoved back into the cold before he could protest, the door slamming behind him. His stomach twisted in hunger, his face burning with humiliation.
Desperation clawed at him. The police. The police would help.
It took him nearly an hour to find the station, his body growing more numb with each passing minute. When he finally pushed through the heavy doors, he nearly sobbed in relief at the blast of warmth. He stumbled up to the front desk, gripping the edge for support.
"I need help," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Please."
The officer behind the desk barely looked up. "Where are your parents?"
"I don't—I don't have any."
A flicker of something passed over the officer's face, but it wasn't concern. It was boredom.
"You're loitering. If you don't have a legal guardian, take it up with social services."
Rowan's stomach sank. "But—"
"Move along, kid."
The finality in his tone left no room for argument. Rowan turned and walked out, the weight of rejection heavier than the biting wind outside.
His last hope was a homeless shelter. It took hours to find one, his exhaustion making every step feel impossible. When he finally arrived, his heart leapt at the sight of the building—warm light spilling through the windows, the smell of food drifting through the cold air.
He knocked. When the door opened, a weary-looking woman peered down at him.
"We're full," she said before he could speak.
Rowan's breath hitched. "But—I'm a kid."
Sympathy flickered in her gaze, but it was quickly replaced by something colder. "I'm sorry. There's nothing we can do."
The door shut in his face.
For the first time since waking up in this nightmare, Rowan felt something break inside him.