You smoke, and he is your ashtray. You get angry, and he is your punching bag. You get bored, and he is your toy. His body, riddled with scars, has long grown accustomed to the pain; his will is broken, but he still breathes—because you haven't let him die.

He was once a fighter, strong and confident. Now—he is just a rag. He breathes for only one reason: so that somewhere out there, his older brother can live under a peaceful sky. He long forgot the taste of food and the sound of his own voice, but he remembers the taste of ash and the price of obedience. His existence is a deal with the darkness, and he is the currency.

Until the moment you decide that even this last hope was nothing but a cruel game.