The One With No Name

In the heart of a bustling city, there lived a certain person who had no name. He was a man without a past, with no place to call home, and no one to call family. He was all alone in the world, left to fend for himself in the unforgiving streets.

He had no idea when and where he was born, but his whole life had been a constant struggle. The very first memory he had was of a fight, him against another street urchin, as they struggled to get whatever leftover scraps were thrown in the dumpster for them to eat. He remembered being especially ferocious due to the hunger he was experiencing. The smell of rotten food was suffocating, and the sound of his growling stomach was unbearable.

Well, that didn't change the fact that he lost the fight. He lost the meal too, and he was left with nothing but his hunger and his pain.

In his very hard life, this person learned the golden rule of survival—fight! Fight! Fight! He had to fight for every morsel of bread, for every drop of water, for every torn fabric he used for clothing… everything had to be taken by force! The competition was intense on the streets. If he didn't take it, someone else would. With this in mind, he did his best to live, to survive—though he didn't have any idea why.

"What am I living for?" He often asked himself. Unfortunately, he didn't have an answer to that question. Still, it was his directive to live. Come what may, he knew he would do whatever it took to live.

Winter was especially rough. The icy winds cut through his ragged clothes, and the snow piled up around him, threatening to bury him alive. He had hardly any shelter or warmth, but this person somehow made do. He scrounged for scraps of wood to build a makeshift shelter, and he huddled close to the fire he built, his shivering body trying to soak up as much warmth as possible.

He was close to death many times, but he didn't die. It was amazing how many close brushes he had with his demise… almost seeming like a miracle. At some point, he began to think he would never die. But then, 'that' incident occurred.

>KPA!<

Silence enveloped the man as he lay on the ground, his body wracked with pain. His ears strained for any sound, but the only thing that filled his senses was the steady beat of his own heart. Suddenly, a gunshot shattered the stillness, echoing through the empty alleyways. There were no warning shouts, no sirens, nothing but the deafening sound of a bullet being fired.

As the smoke from the gunpowder wafted through the air, the man realized what had happened. Confusion clouded his mind, and he whispered a question to himself. "Huh…?" He struggled to understand what was going on, his body too weak to move.

More gunshots pierced the air, their sound cacophonous and terrifying. But to the man, they meant nothing. The bullet hole in his chest was all he could think about. How could he have been so foolish? After everything he had gone through just to survive, to die like this seemed like the ultimate betrayal.

Were the attackers police officers, or were they from a rival gang? He had no way of knowing. The man's consciousness began to fade, and he knew that he wouldn't live to find out.

Suddenly, a cry cut through the air, piercing his ears. "RRRUUUUUUUUNNNNNN! The Cleaners are heerrrrreeeeeee!!!"

The warning came too late, and the man knew that his time was up.

The street was quiet, and the only sound that filled the air was the echoing gunshot that shattered the eerie stillness. It was as though the world had stopped spinning, and nothing else existed except for the sound of death. No alarms, no screams, no warning. Just a single bullet that brought everything to a halt.

The man lying on the ground was gravely ill that day, and he wondered if he had missed the warning signs. The acrid smell of gunpowder filled his nostrils as he struggled to make sense of what was happening. It wasn't until he felt the searing pain in his chest that he realized what had happened. He must have whispered something in confusion, but he couldn't remember what it was.

As more gunshots rang out, he lay there, unable to move. His body was weak and powerless, and he couldn't even bring himself to care about what was happening around him. The only thing he could focus on was the gaping hole in his chest that was slowly draining the life out of him.

Who had done this to him? Was it the police or one of his rival gangs? He didn't know, and he would never find out. The last thing he heard were the warnings of the approaching Cleaners, but by then, it was already too late.

His body lay there, lifeless and forgotten. He had been just another faceless survivor on the streets, living only for his next meal. He had no name, no family, and no identity. He was nothing but a meaningless existence, a victim of a world that had left him behind.

As he lay there, the man couldn't help but wonder if the faceless man who killed him had a face at all. Had he ever taken the time to notice, to really look at the people around him? He doubted it. In a world where survival was the only goal, everything else faded into insignificance.

Dying was nothing new to him, and he felt no resentment or regret as his life ebbed away. It was a fitting end for someone like him, a nobody who had struggled his entire life just to survive. And as the last flicker of life faded from his body, he knew that he would be forgotten, just another casualty of a world that didn't care.

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[A/N]

I hope you enjoyed the chapter.

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