9. Hungry to Theft
Hungry to Theft
Nichole
The night air is damp, clinging to my skin as I follow them down the cracked sidewalk. The streets are mostly empty, save for the occasional flicker of headlights in the distance, the soft hum of a city that never fully sleeps. But to Damian, the world beyond these streets might as well not exist.
He moves with purpose, his steps quick but measured, his fingers never loosening their hold on Alessandra’s hand. She follows without a word, her small frame sagging slightly with exhaustion, but she doesn’t resist.
Ahead, the dull glow of a convenience store sign flickers against the night, its buzzing neon barely clinging to life. The glass doors are scratched and streaked with dirt, the interior dimly lit by overhead fluorescents that cast everything in a pale, sickly hue.
Damian slows as they approach, his eyes darting to the security cameras mounted near the entrance. He lingers near the door, his expression unreadable, his breathing steady as he calculates his next move.
Then he turns to Alessandra.
"Stay here," he murmurs, his voice calm, firm. "I’ll be right back."
Alessandra frowns, her fingers tightening around his hand. "But—"
"It’ll just take a second," he promises, softening his tone. "Don’t move, okay?"
She hesitates, but eventually nods.
Damian lets go of her hand.
The second he steps inside, I feel the shift.
The air in the store is colder, sharper, the faint smell of cleaning solution mixing with stale snacks and cheap coffee. The aisles are mostly empty, save for a tired-looking cashier sitting behind the counter, flipping through a magazine, and an older store clerk restocking shelves near the back.
Damian doesn’t waste time.
He moves quickly, quietly, weaving through the aisles like he’s done this before—or at least, like he’s spent enough time watching others do it to know exactly how it’s done.
Bread. Bologna. A bottle of water.
He keeps his hands steady, his movements efficient, stuffing the items into the oversized hoodie he’s wearing, using the loose fabric to conceal them.
His eyes flick to the counter. The cashier hasn’t looked up. The store clerk is still stacking cans, distracted.
Nichole’s pulse quickens.
"Go, Damian. Go now."
He turns, heading for the door, his shoulders relaxed, his steps casual—but just as he reaches the exit—
"Hey! You, kid—stop!"
The voice booms through the store, sharp and cutting.
Damian freezes.
Nichole stiffens.
The store clerk sees him.
For the first time since entering the Nightmare Room, Damian looks scared.
Something inside me snaps.
I don’t think—I move.
The store clerk lunges forward, his expression twisted with irritation, not anger. He isn’t chasing Damian because he cares about the theft. He isn’t even chasing him because he wants to stop some hungry kid from stealing food.
This is about power. He’s bigger. Stronger. And he thinks that means he wins.Not this time.
Damian and Alessandra bolt for the door, their small feet barely making a sound against the dirty linoleum. But the man is right behind them, his heavy boots pounding the floor, his breath a sharp, angry exhale as he closes in.
I react before I can stop myself. The nightmare lets me move. It lets me be real. And I take advantage of it.
The second the clerk reaches me, I shift my foot out—fast, precise, deliberate.
His body snaps forward, momentum carrying him faster than he realizes. His foot catches my ankle.
For a split second, there’s silence. Then he goes down Hard.
His body crashes into the floor, the impact rattling through the shelves. He lands on his side, a loud, ugly grunt tearing from his throat as his chin bounces off the tile. Cans topple off the shelves, rolling in every direction.
A sharp curse rips from his mouth. He has no idea what just happened.
I stumble back, my breath catching in my throat. I just changed the nightmare.
For the first time since stepping into Damian’s past, I touched something. I affected something. The nightmare let me intervene.
Damian and Alessandra don’t stop running. They don’t look back. The door swings open and they’re gone.
And I stand there, staring down at the man groaning on the floor, my heart hammering in my chest, realization crashing over me like a tidal wave.
I just helped them escape.
I just became part of Damian’s past.
The moment Damian and Alessandra disappear into the night, I tear after them, my pulse pounding so hard it drowns out everything else. The store clerk is still groaning behind me, struggling to push himself off the floor, but I don’t look back.
I can’t.
All that matters is keeping up with them.
The streetlights cast long shadows as I chase their small figures, my breath sharp in the cool air.
Damian is fast, quieter than a child his age should be, his grip firm as he leads Alessandra through the maze of darkened streets.
She stumbles once, her exhaustion making her feet unsteady, but he tightens his hold on her hand, keeping her upright.
He doesn’t stop.
Not until they reach the alley.
It’s narrow, damp from earlier rain, the ground uneven with cracks and broken pavement. A dumpster sits against the far wall, its metal rusted and dented. The dim glow from a distant streetlamp barely reaches them here, wrapping them in shadows.
Finally, Damian slows.
His breath is measured, not panicked. He’s done this before.
He guides Alessandra to a spot against the wall, out of sight from the street.
Only then does he release her hand.
I stop a few feet away, watching as Damian kneels, his hands moving with quiet urgency. He pulls the stolen food from beneath his hoodie—the loaf of bread, the bologna, the bottle of water.
His fingers work quickly, tearing pieces of bread, rolling the bologna inside, making small bundles.
He doesn’t speak. Neither does Alessandra. She just watches, her wide, tired eyes flicking between the food and his hands.
When he’s done, he doesn’t hesitate—he hands the food to her first.
She reaches for it, her small hands shaking. The second she takes a bite, her entire body relaxes. I feel the ache in my chest deepen. She was that hungry.
Damian sits back against the wall, his knees drawn up, arms resting loosely on them. But he doesn’t eat.
Not yet. He just watches her. Making sure she eats first. Because she always comes first and that’s when I truly understand.
Damian isn’t just her brother. He’s her protector. Her entire world. Even at ten years old, he’s already made his choice.
He’ll give her everything. Even if it means he gets nothing.
I take a slow, careful step forward, emerging from the shadows.
The dim alley light barely reaches me, casting a faint glow over Damian and Alessandra. They look so small huddled there—two children sitting in the cold, barely more than bones, surviving off a handful of stolen food.
I swallow against the tightness in my throat and take another step, this time deliberately.
"Are you two okay?"
My voice is soft but steady, carrying through the quiet alley like a ripple against still water.
Damian’s head jerks up instantly. The moment his eyes land on me, his entire body locks up.
For a second, his expression is blank, his brain scrambling to process me. Where I came from. How I got here.
Then, just as quickly—suspicion sets in. His small hands go rigid, tightening.
His body shifts subtly, but I notice it. That tiny, instinctive movement that places him between me and Alessandra.
He doesn’t push her behind him, doesn’t yank her away—but the message is clear.
"I don’t know who you are. And I’m not letting you near her."
The weight of it hits me hard.
Even now, even at ten, his first instinct is to protect her.
His sharp eyes flick up and down, assessing me. I can almost hear his thoughts, fast and cold, running through every possibility.
Who is she? Where did she come from? Does she want something? Is she dangerous? Can I outrun her?
I hold my hands up slowly, making sure he doesn’t see me as a threat. "I’m not here to hurt you," I say, keeping my voice low. "I just… I wanted to make sure you’re okay."
His brows furrow, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t relax.
Alessandra, still chewing, looks up at me. Her big eyes blink curiously, her exhaustion making her slower to react than her brother.
But Damian doesn’t trust me.
Not yet.
Not after the life he’s lived.
And for the first time, standing in front of him, seeing the way he braces himself, I understand exactly why.
I kneel down, lowering myself to his level, careful not to make any sudden movements. Damian’s gaze stays locked on me, sharp and cautious, his fingers curling tighter around the stolen food.
I meet his stare, unwavering.
"You did what you had to do," I say gently, but firmly. "That doesn’t make you bad—it makes you strong."
His jaw tenses. His fingers twitch, just slightly, like the words unsettled something inside him.
I see it—the flicker of doubt. Not in me. In himself.
He’s spent so long surviving, doing whatever it takes to keep himself and Alessandra alive. And now, I can see the weight of it pressing down on him.
Because at ten years old, he’s already wondering if he’s become something he’s not supposed to be.
I shift my gaze to Alessandra, who’s still curled beside him, her small body tucked close to his. Her tiny fingers clutch his sleeve, holding onto him even in her exhaustion.
"And you're lucky," I tell her softly. "You have a big brother who will do anything for you."
Alessandra blinks up at me, her tired face breaking into a small, sleepy smile.
"Damian takes care of me," she murmurs, her voice groggy but certain.
She nuzzles against his side, her head resting against his arm like it’s the safest place in the world.
Damian stiffens.
Not because he doesn’t want her there—but because he doesn’t know how to take this kind of recognition.
I see the way his grip tightens on the food in his lap, his head lowering slightly, his shoulders drawing in. His voice comes out rough, almost bitter.
"No one cares about us."