This was never how the story was meant to start—but it was the truth: harsh, unsettling, and inconvenient for a city that preferred not to notice boys like Ethan Miller at all.

The storm had transformed Cleveland’s streets into rushing channels of water. Rain slammed against the pavement, bouncing back in sheets, gathering beneath an overpass where cars funneled through without slowing.

Headlights sliced through the darkness, spraying water onto the sidewalks, never pausing long enough to care.

In the center of the flooded road sat a woman.

She was heavily pregnant, drenched and trembling, struggling just to remain upright. Her phone lay submerged beside her, useless. One shoe was missing. Each attempt to stand ended the same way—pain contorting her face before she collapsed again, breathless.