1

  The sun had barely risen when Finn stepped out onto the warm sidewalk, the sky painted in gentle hues of early morning—pale golds and soft pinks bleeding into the fading navy of night. The city was just beginning to wake, the sound of distant traffic stirring like a sleepy giant. Finn walked beside his younger brother, Maxi, who was mid-sentence about some game he’d been obsessed with, while their friends Ellie and Carla walked ahead, sharing a pair of earphones and laughing about something only the two of them seemed to understand.

  It was an ordinary morning. Ordinary streets, ordinary school bags, ordinary chatter. And yet, Finn always had this strange feeling, as if every morning carried the chance that something—something different—could happen. He didn’t say that out loud, of course. Maxi would call him dramatic, Ellie would call it romantic, and Carla would give him that thoughtful look that meant she might actually believe him.

  The four of them reached the old stone bridge that crossed a narrow creek running under the city. The bridge wasn’t particularly beautiful—graffiti, chipped pillars, rust creeping along the metal rails—but sunlight caught the water beneath it in a dazzling shimmer, and that always made Finn slow down to look. The others walked on. He let them. He liked being a few steps back from the world sometimes.

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  Then he heard it—a low, harsh growl echoing from beneath the bridge.

  Finn stopped.

  He leaned over the railing and felt the air in his chest tighten. Down below, crouched against the stone column, was an old woman. Her clothes were worn and faded, her silver hair tangled by wind and time. She was gripping a wooden broom like it was the only thing keeping her alive. Surrounding her were five wild dogs—thin, ragged, snarling, their ribs showing like sharp shadows beneath their skin.

  “Hey—” Finn breathed, his voice shocked into softness. The others turned at the sound.

  “What’s wrong?” Ellie asked, her smile falling the moment she saw his face.

  Finn didn’t answer. He didn’t think. His legs moved before his mind did.

  “Finn!” Maxi shouted as his brother took off, sprinting down the embankment toward the old woman. Gravel kicked under his shoes. The dogs snapped their heads toward him, startled, irritated. One barked—a harsh, violent sound—and Finn felt the ground quake beneath his foot, but he didn’t stop.

  “Finn, what are you doing?!” Carla yelled.

  He glanced back just long enough to shout over his shoulder, breathless but firm, “Don’t worry about me! Just go on ahead! I’ll catch up—go to school!”

  But they didn’t move. They just watched him, wide-eyed, like they were seeing Finn for the first time—not the quiet boy who liked to walk slow and look at sunlight on water, but someone who ran toward danger without hesitation.

  And Finn—heart pounding, lungs burning—kept running.

  He didn’t know what he was going to do. He didn’t know if he could protect her. He only knew one thing:

  No one deserved to face fear alone.