The moment he reached home Izaan called his sister, and in her voice he heard a fragile thread of hope. Whatever happened, he knew he had to shoulder his responsibilities. While chasing his own dreams, he would also have to think of his family.
Once more he told himself, "Whatever comes, I can't give up. I have to fight—for myself and for them…"
The next morning
Izaan rose early, pulled on his worn-out clothes, and got ready. Stepping outside, a strange dread clung to him. Today he had a shift at the convenience store where he worked part-time. One fear hammered at his chest: Would the owner fire me for being late and ending up in the hospital yesterday?
But when he walked into the store, something unexpected happened. The owner—usually stern—came over silently. Terror flickered in Izaan's eyes, yet the man simply said:
"Come on, start your work."
Izaan stood there for a heartbeat, surprised. Seeing no anger in the owner's face, a weight lifted from him. Maybe today will be different, he thought.
Relief flooded him—an unfamiliar sensation. For once he felt stronger, a trace more confident, as if by refusing to apologize for something that wasn't his fault he had proved himself.
"Thank you," he murmured, and set to work, hoping the day might lead him in a new direction.
At the restaurant
His hopes shattered the moment he reached the restaurant where he picked up extra shifts. The manager, who was usually laid-back, looked furious.
"Why didn't you show up yesterday?" he barked.
"I'm sorry, sir—I was sick and—"
"Sick, or just lazy?" the manager cut him off, voice rising. "There's no place here for people like you. You can't handle responsibility."
Izaan bowed his head, hands pressed together. "Please forgive me. It wasn't on purpose. Give me one more chance."
The manager wouldn't listen. He shoved Izaan toward the door. "Get out. You're not fit for this job!"
Out on the street Izaan trudged along, anger and despair slowly hardening into silence. All the hope he'd felt minutes earlier bled away. Maybe I'll never escape this life—apologizing forever…
Instinctively he wandered toward the bridge that always gave him a moment's peace. Noon sunlight turned the river gold, calming him a little. He sat on the edge, closed his eyes, and let the city noise fade.
When he opened them again he heard shouting. Car horns, raised voices—then a scream. Turning, he saw several men dragging a boy from his car and beating him. The boy fought back alone. Izaan's eyes widened—it was Ved.
Ved? Here? And who's attacking him?
First he had to help. Izaan sprinted toward the brawl.
Planting himself between Ved and the thugs, he pleaded, "Please, leave him—don't hurt him!"
They ignored him. One thug shoved Izaan hard; he hit the pavement. Gasping, he got up again.
"Please—let him go!"
A fist smashed into his face, sending him reeling. His head struck the ground, darkness blooming in his vision. Still he rose, staggering toward Ved.
The men were merciless. They knocked him down again and again. Bruises bloomed on his arms, blood trickled from his lip, and hopelessness flooded his eyes.
I haven't fought in ten years… I can't… I can't…
Then Ved's pained cry tore through the air—and something ignited inside Izaan.
"No! I won't let you die! Not again—never!"
Clenching the gravel with bloody fingers, he forced himself upright. His heart pounded like thunder. The thugs loomed, ready to finish it, but this time Izaan didn't back down.
"Move, or get hurt," one thug snarled.
Izaan said nothing—he simply breathed deep, braced himself. The thug lunged. Izaan caught the man's wrist.
"I'm not stepping aside again," he whispered.
Fire blazed in his eyes. He hurled the thug backward. The others stared—was this the same man they'd just beaten senseless?
But a storm had awakened within Izaan. He was alone, yet he would not surrender. Every old weakness fell away. He would fight—for Ved, for himself.
One thug glared, furious. "Enough of this drama!"