The coldest night of the year settled over Chicago like a final judgment.
The wind tore through alleyways, slammed into brick walls, and howled between buildings as if the city itself were wounded. It was February 14th. Downtown store windows still glowed with red hearts and golden lights, promising love, warmth, and candlelit dinners.
But for Marcus Williams—twelve years old, painfully thin, fingers cracked and bleeding—there was no Valentine’s Day.
There was only the cold.
Only hunger.
Only the same question that haunted him every night:
Where do I hide so I don’t die tonight?
