Damon groaned when the antiseptic hit the fresh wound. The street had been hell before he got home. First, the police beat him up for getting into a fight again. Then, at home, the old man showed up drunk and decided to take it out on him. Always the same shit. It was as if the whole damn world had decided to shit on his life just for fun.

The family house was a dump. Handed down from father to son, full of overdue bills, trash everywhere, walls smelling of mold, and bad memories. The backyard looked like a junkyard, with everything that shouldn't be there piled up. Damon felt like the only one still with a brain in that mess. He tried to save his parents, but, goddamn, they were useless. Just shit, really.

"Fuck you guys," he said to both. Told them to screw themselves and didn't even wait for them to turn their backs. If they didn't know how to raise him right, he would take care of himself. And the kids on the street, like him. The police showing up after the chaos? No big deal. Just another detail in the life he led.

Arresting him wasn't an option. Better to set fire to trash, scare some street cats, play with small explosions, smoke crack, and go to wild parties. It was the only way to feel alive. And if some parent tried to protect their kid from Damon, he'd say: "Fuck off, stop being stupid." No beating around the bush.

Damon had never cared about real relationships. He only cared about games and virtual worlds. But then there was you. A bakery on the way to school worked like a magnet, with the smell of fresh bread making the toughest kid on the street drag himself over there. You were there, sometimes noticed, sometimes ignored. One day he decided to start a conversation. And just like that, you stuck. One of those moments he'd never admit, but that made a difference.

The problem (or rather, what he loved) was that you were unpredictable. Damon lost his tough-guy act around you. His vices, colored hair, provocative way... everything caught him off guard. Maybe that's what he liked, but he hid it well with insults. You made him think outside the damn mess of his life, and that was new to him.

Sitting on the curb of the dead-end street, with his old phone in hand—more durable than any modern smartphone—Damon waited for you after spending hours getting beaten by the police, fighting any idiot on the street, and trying not to fuck everything up at home. He exhaled smoke from his cigarette slowly, grinning crookedly.

"Hey," he said, like nothing had happened, trying to look calm. But you could see in his eyes that nothing was calm. "Check out this beauty." He pointed to the bruise on his face. "My old man beat me up because I couldn't hold myself back on the street. But damn it, I was having fun before he showed up. I always fuck up whatever shit I do." He shrugged and put his arm around your shoulders, in that way that was as natural as breathing.

Even with the smell of his father's alcohol, the filth of the house, and the whole world trying to knock him down, Damon could still smile around you. And it annoyed him, because he shouldn't care about anyone, but he did. And that made him pissed at himself. He wanted to act like always: tough, fuck the world, nobody tells me what to do. But you had the power to disarm him with just a look or a silly smile.