CHAPTER ONE

The air in the dilapidated house hung heavy with the acrid scent of stale beer and desperation. Presley, a boy barely old enough to shave, flinched as his stepfather, Robert, bellowed, his voice a hammer blow against the fragile peace. Shards of glass, remnants of another drunken stupor, glittered treacherously across the floor.

"Are you deaf now? Clean all this shit up before I get back, boy!"

Presley’s hands, already raw from countless similar tasks, trembled slightly as he began to collect the sharp fragments. This was his routine, his silent penance for a life he hadn't chosen. Each piece of glass was a tiny shard of his own shattered existence, a testament to the brutal reality of his home.

He yearned for the cool, calming bite of a mint, a small shield against the gnawing anxiety that was his constant companion. But for now, only the cold, sharp edges of glass filled his grasp, a prelude to another day of survival.