The first light of dawn broke over the city, painting the streets in pale gold. Johan stepped out from under the bridge, his stomach gnawing with an emptiness that had become all too familiar. The torn cloak hung loosely over his shoulders, and his hair, tangled and matted, caught the morning sun.
He walked slowly through the crowded streets, voice hoarse from disuse.
"Please… anyone… just something to eat," he called out, his hands outstretched.
"I can do anything… just give me food…"
Passersby barely glanced at him. Some scowled, muttering curses under their breath. "Shut up!" one barked.
"Go to hell, beggar!" Another hurled a small, rotten apple at his feet, sending it rolling across the cobblestones.
Even so, Johan did not stop. He raised his voice again, pleading, desperation threading through each word. Not because he had lost his pride — that had already been stripped from him — but because his body ached, every fiber crying out for sustenance. Hunger was a cruel master, and he had no choice but to obey.
Step by step, he moved through the city, unnoticed by most, mocked by some, ignored by all.
Yet, still he pressed on, driven by the simple, raw need to survive another day.
Johan shuffled through the narrow streets, each step heavier than the last.
Hunger gnawed at him like a relentless beast, but still he kept his voice raised, calling out for help.
A man passing by noticed him, a loaf of bread in hand. With a scowl, he tossed it toward Johan. "Here, beggar! Take it and get lost!"
The bread tumbled toward him, and for a brief moment, Johan hesitated. He knew the gesture was mocking, that the man had not given it out of kindness but to cast him away. Yet his stomach cried louder than his pride.
He bent down, picked up the bread, and murmured softly, "Thank you."
Because that is what hunger means — a force that made even mockery feel like salvation.
Johan tore a piece from the loaf and brought it to his lips, the warmth and scent a small comfort against the cold gnawing of hunger.
As he chewed, his eyes caught movement nearby — a small child crouched against the wall, his hands outstretched, pleading for scraps.
Hunger and despair clung to the boy like a shadow. Johan's heart tightened. He recognized him.
He remembered their brief conversation from days before.
The boy had told him, voice trembling, that his parents were gone and that his relatives had thrown him out, leaving him to fend for himself.
Johan swallowed, his breath escaping in a slow, bitter exhale.
"Oh… so this is how it is," he murmured quietly, the words heavy with the cruel weight of the world.
Johan pushed himself up from his huddled position, the cold biting at his hands.
He walked over to the small child, his gaze softening.
"Are you hungry?" he asked gently.
The boy looked up, recognition lighting his tired eyes.
"Mister… we met again," he said quietly, his voice tinged with both hope and resignation. "I'm still trying…"
Johan held out the bread in his hand, and at that moment, the low rumble of the boy's stomach echoed softly, betraying his hunger.
"I should go… maybe I can find something in the market," the boy said, starting to turn away.
Johan grabbed his small hand before he could leave. "No. Stay with me. Let's eat together."
The boy hesitated, his eyes wide. "But… you're hungry too."
Johan shook his head, a faint smile breaking through his weariness. "It doesn't matter. We'll eat this bread first. Then we can look for food… or find work together."
The boy's lips curled into a genuine smile for the first time in days. "Okay," he said softly, settling beside Johan.
As they broke the bread in silence, Johan finally spoke, his voice soft. "What's your name?"
The boy looked up, his hair long and tangled, black eyes wide and wary. His clothes were torn and filthy, evidence of the harsh streets he'd survived. "Sugaru," he whispered. "I'm ten years old."
Johan nodded slowly, a faint warmth tugging at his chest. "From now on… we'll live together," he said firmly.
Sugaru's lips curved into a small, genuine smile. "Okay," he said, relief shining through the grime on his face.
The scene shifted as night fell.
The city streets had grown silent, cold wind sweeping past empty markets. Johan and Sugaru trudged back to Johan's small shelter under the bridge, their stomachs still empty, no work or food found during the day.
"This… this is all we have for now," Johan murmured, trying to sound light, but his voice carried the weight of hunger and exhaustion. He glanced at Sugaru. "We should get some sleep."
The boy nodded, shivering slightly as he climbed onto the thin, torn cloth that served as their bed. Johan followed, curling up beside him.
In the darkness, Sugaru's small hand gripped tightly at Johan's torn shirt, almost as if pleading in his sleep, a silent whisper carried through his grip: Don't leave me.
Johan's eyes softened as he felt the boy cling to him, and for the first time in months, a quiet resolve settled in his chest. No matter the hunger, the humiliation, or the hardship, he wouldn't let this boy face the world alone.
The cold night passed slowly, but in their small shared warmth, a fragile sense of hope lingered, fragile but unbroken.
They didn't notice the small shelter beneath the bridge — but the city did not need to notice. Night was a shallow thing here, cut by torchlight and the clatter of boots.
From the far end of the lane a sudden shout split the stillness. "After him! Don't let him get away!"
A man dressed entirely in black — cloth wrapped tight around his body, a mask hiding his face — darted between alleys.
A golden-colored bag was slung over his shoulder, its metal glinting in the torchlight as he ran. Behind him, twenty-four armored guards poured into the street like a black wave, swords raised, torches held high.
"Catch him! Follow him!" one sergeant barked, voice harsh and urgent. "Where's the backup?"
A younger guard panted as he pushed past a stall. "Calling now, sir — but be careful! He's dangerous. They say he's already cut down thirty elite soldiers who were protecting that bag."
Another guard spat on the cobbles. "If he gets away with that bag, our lord will have our heads. Don't hesitate — strike him down."
The masked man sprinted, feet slamming against stone, the golden bag thumping at his side. He took a narrow cut between two houses, forcing the guards to fan out and close the gap. Torches threw long shadows high against plaster and wood.
"Left flank! Seal the market!" someone shouted. "He can't slip through the stalls!"
The pursuit tightened. Metal rang against metal as the first guards reached the alleyways, their breath steaming in the cold night air.
The masked figure moved without fear, twisting through the maze of the city as if he knew each hidden step — always a heartbeat ahead, always counting on a narrow margin that might keep him alive.
But the guards pushed harder. Fear of their lord's wrath sharpened their blades and speed. They had orders. They had duty. They had a single, terrifying command: fetch that bag — by any means.
[ want to captain saga,share your thoughts or get sneaky peeks? join our discord https://discord.gg/PyamRSzmx ]