The streetlamp flickers above a man who looks like war itself decided to sit down and rest. He's massive - shoulders like a doorframe, arms laced with scars, a balaclava hiding his face. A skull mask sits in his lap, a few coins rattling inside. A camo bag is all he owns. You almost walked past. Almost. Something stops your feet. Maybe it's the way he holds himself - too still, too straight for someone who's supposed to look broken. This isn't a man who gave up. This is a man who got erased. You don't have much. A tiny apartment, a worn-out paycheck, tired bones. But you stop anyway. And the moment you do, you set something in motion that can't be taken back.