The taxi pulled up to the curb, kicking up a cloud of dust and grit. Genesis handed the driver a crumpled twenty-dollar bill from her wallet and told him to keep the change, her eyes already fixed on the scene across the street.

A construction site. The skeleton of a new commercial building rose against the sky, surrounded by piles of lumber, rebar, and bags of cement. Men in hard hats and dirty jeans shouted over the roar of machinery.

Genesis stepped out of the cab, immediately shielding her face as the wind threw dust in her eyes. It was a world away from her manicured lawn and the pristine halls of Northgate High.

And then she saw him.

He was over by a stack of cement bags, his back to her. Even from a distance, she recognized the slump of his shoulders, the too-thin frame that seemed to hold too much weight. He was wearing a faded black t-shirt, already dark with sweat, and jeans that had seen better days.

He hoisted a bag onto his shoulder, his body straining with the effort. He was just a boy, doing a man's brutal work.

A sharp, physical pain shot through Genesis's chest. This was his reality. While she was diagramming sentences and worrying about college applications, he was here, breaking his body for a handful of cash.

She ducked behind a stack of drywall, her heart pounding. She couldn't just run over there. What would she even say? Hi, I saw you die for me in a vision, so I'm here to save you? He'd think she was insane.

A burly man with a beer gut straining the fabric of his shirt stomped over to Cas. He barked something Genesis couldn't hear, and Cas stopped working, wiping his brow with the back of a filthy hand.

The man was Mitch Kowalski, the site foreman. He pulled a wad of cash from his pocket and peeled off a few bills, shoving them at Cas.

Even from her hiding spot, Genesis could see it wasn't enough.

Cas said something, his voice too low to carry, but his stance was firm. He was arguing. He was standing up for himself.

Mitch let out a booming, ugly laugh. "You're a temp, kid! And underage. You get what I give you." He raised his voice for the benefit of the other workers who had paused to watch. "Beggars can't be choosers! Be glad you're getting paid at all, you little charity case!"

A few of the men snickered. Others just turned away, their faces blank and indifferent.

Cas's hands clenched into tight fists at his sides. The knuckles were white, the veins on the back of his hands standing out like cords. But he didn't swing. He didn't shout. He just stood there, absorbing the humiliation.

Finally, with a stiff, jerky motion, he took the crumpled bills. His eyes were like chips of ice.

Genesis dug her nails into her palms, the small pain a distraction from the rage boiling inside her. She wanted to scream. She wanted to march over there and slap the smug look off that foreman's face.

But Mitch wasn't done. As Cas turned to leave, the foreman stuck out his foot, deliberately tripping him.

It happened so fast. Cas stumbled, his arms windmilling for balance. He crashed into a low-level scaffold, his feet slipping on the loose gravel.

Genesis let out a choked cry, her hand flying to her mouth.

He fell. It wasn't a long drop, maybe only five or six feet, but he landed hard on the unforgiving ground, a mess of rocks and debris.

A collective laugh went through the small crowd of onlookers. Mitch Kowalski spat on the ground near where Cas lay, then turned and walked away. The show was over.

No one went to help him.

Cas lay still for a moment, then slowly, painfully, pushed himself up. His left arm was scraped raw, bleeding freely from a long gash. His jeans were torn at the knee, revealing another bloody wound.

He got to his feet, swaying slightly. He looked at his bleeding arm, then wiped it with the sleeve of his dirty t-shirt, smearing the blood and grime together.

He picked up his worn-out backpack from the ground, slung it over his good shoulder, and started walking. He didn't look back. He just limped toward the site's exit, his head down, a lone wolf retreating from the pack.

Tears streamed down Genesis's face, hot and silent. Her heart felt like it was being squeezed in a vise. The self-respect he had, the pride that kept him from breaking down, was so much more profound than anything she had ever witnessed.

She knew, with absolute certainty, that if she ran to him now, offering help, he would reject it. It would be another form of humiliation, a rich girl's pity.

She had to be smarter than that.

Her eyes focused on the gash on his arm. It was deep. It needed to be cleaned.

A plan, sharp and clear, formed in her mind.

She turned and ran, away from the construction site, toward the main street. She scanned the storefronts, her eyes searching.

Pharmacy. She needed a pharmacy.

She would buy the best antiseptic, the softest bandages, everything he needed.

She ran faster, her mind racing. This was the first step. She couldn't fix his poverty or the world's cruelty in one day. But she could clean his wounds.

I will be your armor, she promised the lonely figure disappearing down the road. I swear it.

---

The CVS bag felt heavy in her hand, weighted with more than just gauze and antiseptic. It felt like a first offering, a fragile bridge.

Genesis found the apartment building from a sliver of last life memory, a time she'd driven a friend home and noticed the dilapidated brick structure. It was even worse up close. The air in the hallway was thick with the smell of dampness, old grease, and despair.

She stopped in front of apartment 2B. The number was barely visible, painted over and peeling. Taking a deep breath that did nothing to calm the frantic beating of her heart, she knocked. The sound was too loud in the silent hall.

No answer.

She could hear a faint rustling inside, the sound of movement. He was in there.

She knocked again, a little softer this time. "Cas?" she called, her voice trembling slightly. "It's Genesis Greene. From school. I saw you get hurt."

A voice, rough and low, came through the wood of the door. "Get lost."

It was the first time he had ever spoken directly to her. The words were a slap, cold and sharp, laced with a deep-seated weariness.

She didn't move. "Your arm," she insisted, speaking to the closed door. "That cut is bad. It needs to be cleaned, or it'll get infected."

The silence that followed was absolute. She held her breath, hoping.

Then, she heard it. A distinct, final sound.

Click.

The deadbolt.

He had locked her out. He had locked away her help, her concern, her.

A wave of helplessness washed over her. She stood there for a long moment, staring at the peeling paint, feeling the sting of his rejection. But underneath the hurt was a stubborn, aching tenderness. His coldness wasn't for her. It was a shield. A wall he'd built brick by painful brick to keep the world from doing any more damage.

She couldn't break it down by force.

Gently, she placed the CVS bag on the worn, grimy welcome mat in front of his door.

"I'm leaving the supplies here," she said, her voice soft but clear. "There's antiseptic, bandages, and some antibiotic ointment. Please... just use them."

She waited a moment longer, then turned and walked away, her footsteps echoing in the empty hall.

The next day at school was torture. Cas's seat was empty again. All day, Genesis was tormented by images of him in that dark apartment, his wound festering, ignoring the help she'd left.

At the end of the last period, she went to her locker, her mind a numb buzz of worry. She spun the combination, the familiar clicks doing nothing to soothe her. She pulled the metal door open.

And froze.

Sitting on top of her history textbook was a CVS bag. The CVS bag.

Her hands trembled as she lifted it out. It was lighter than she remembered. She looked inside.

The box of large-sized bandages had been opened, and a few were missing. The bottle of antiseptic was a little less full. He had used them.

Relief, so potent it made her knees weak, flooded through her.

But that wasn't all. Tucked neatly back into the bag were brand-new, unopened replacements for everything he had used. A new box of bandages. A new bottle of antiseptic. He'd even bought a new box of the assorted-size band-aids she'd thrown in at the last minute.

And tucked inside the new box of bandages was a small, folded piece of notebook paper.

She unfolded it with fumbling fingers.

Two words were scrawled in a messy but strong hand.

Thanks. Owed.

A laugh escaped her lips, a sound that was half sob. Tears pricked her eyes as she stared at the note.

This was his way. Proud, stubborn, and fiercely principled. He would accept her help when he desperately needed it, but he would not be in her debt. He wouldn't take her charity.

The small, anonymous gesture was more intimate than any conversation. It was a glimpse behind the wall. A tiny crack in the ice.

She carefully folded the note and tucked it into her pocket, a precious secret. She held the bag close to her chest, a ridiculous smile spreading across her face.

He wasn't just a charity case. He wasn't a project.

He was a boy who, despite everything, paid his debts.

And she knew, with a certainty that warmed her from the inside out, that she was going to see him again tomorrow.

---

She didn't go to his apartment the next day. Pushing him would only make him retreat further. Instead, Genesis parked her car across the street, in the lot of a small coffee shop, and waited. It felt like stalking, and a part of her was deeply ashamed, but the larger part, the part that remembered him dying for her, didn't care.

After an hour, he emerged. He was limping more noticeably than before, and he moved with a stiffness that spoke of deep aches and pains. He didn't head toward the construction site or the bus stop for school. He boarded a city bus heading east, toward the suburbs.

Genesis started her car and followed at a discreet distance. "What are you doing, Cas?" she whispered to herself.

The bus wound its way into a neighborhood of modest, tidy houses with green lawns and picket fences. It was a world away from his grim apartment building. Cas got off at a corner and walked to a small, pale blue house.

A middle-aged woman with a sour face opened the door before he could knock. Dori Duffy. His aunt. Genesis could just make out her sharp, whining voice through the closed car window.

"About time. You have the money? Your mother's monthly expenses are due."

Cas reached into his pocket and pulled out the crumpled bills Mitch Kowalski had thrown at him. The money he'd been beaten and humiliated for. He handed it over without a word.

Dori snatched the cash and counted it quickly. Her face soured even more. "Is this it? Is this all? At this rate, that settlement money from your father is going to be gone before she is."

At the mention of his mother, Barb Morrison, Cas's entire body went rigid.

A large, slovenly man with a cigarette dangling from his lips appeared in the doorway behind Dori. Dale Duffy, his uncle. He saw Cas and, without breaking stride, hawked and spit a thick glob of phlegm that landed inches from Cas's worn-out sneakers.

"Bad luck follows you everywhere, boy," Dale grunted.

Genesis felt a surge of hot, violent anger. These were his family. This was how they treated him.

Cas ignored his uncle's greeting. His voice was low, almost a plea. "Can I... see her?"

Dori rolled her eyes. "And get her all worked up? No. The doctor says she needs calm. The sight of you is the last thing she needs."

The words were designed to wound, and they hit their mark. Genesis saw the flicker of pain in his eyes before it was replaced by that familiar, icy mask.

Dale stepped forward, puffing out his chest. He jabbed a thick finger into Cas's shoulder. "You heard her. Get lost. We don't want you here."

Cas stood his ground, his silence more defiant than any shout.

Dale, enraged by this passive resistance, shoved him hard in the chest. "I said, get out of here!"

Already off-balance from his limp, Cas stumbled backward, catching himself just before he fell. He looked up, and for a second, the mask slipped. His eyes blazed with a pure, undiluted fury.

The look was all Dale needed. He swung his open hand, the crack of it hitting Cas's cheek echoing in the quiet suburban street.

The sound was like a gunshot to Genesis's heart.

Cas's head snapped to the side. A bright red mark instantly bloomed on his skin. He didn't make a sound. He just took it, his jaw clenched so tight Genesis worried his teeth would shatter.

Dale raised his hand again, but Dori grabbed his arm. "Not on the porch, Dale! The neighbors!" she hissed.

She gave Cas one last shove. "Go on, get out of here. And don't come back until you have the rest of the money."

The door slammed shut, the sound final and brutal.

Cas stood on the welcome mat for a long, long time, staring at the closed door. A statue of rejected grief.

Genesis finally understood. The money wasn't for him. It was for his sick mother. And the very people entrusted with her care were the ones torturing her son. His world was smaller, darker, and more cruel than she could have ever imagined.

Eventually, he turned. He didn't go back to the bus stop.

He started walking.

Genesis followed, keeping a long distance. She watched as Cas limped down the suburban streets, his shoulders slumped in defeat. He walked for miles, through manicured neighborhoods and past busy intersections, all the way back to the rotting heart of the city. Back to his tiny, empty apartment.

The journey was long and silent. And for every painful step he took, Genesis's resolve hardened into something unbreakable.

---