15 Years Ago – After Zabi's Dad Is Rolled Out of the Operating Room, Unconscious

Zabi stood outside in the narrow alley behind the hospital.

It was dark and gloomy, insects buzzing all over the trash bins—filled with used gloves, injections, and torn medicine cartons.

For a hospital bin, it didn't look clean at all.

And that was exactly where kid Zabi sat—knees raised, arms wrapped around them as he cried nonstop.

His back pressed against the cold wall, the air-filter fan above him squeaking like machinery from a factory.

Earlier,

the receptionist and some nurses had sympathized with him. They put his father on a water drip, gave him injections to stabilize his scorching body—but nothing showed promise.

He never woke up.

He just lay there, eyes crossed, body still.

That was what Zabi was dealing with.

Back in the alley—

"I just want to go home…"

He spoke through shuttered breaths, shivering as if he was on top of Mount Everest.

"We shouldn't have come here in the first place. I told you, but you didn't listen—saying my future goes first. Look now. I don't even know what to do. I'm just some useless African boy in another country!"

Doubt and blame drowned him, consuming him from the inside like an infection.

His head spun.

No muscle in his body obeyed him.

The sharp mind his father always bragged about was silent for the first time.

He saw no solutions.

To other people, he was just a Black African kid with something to hide. Whether they knew him or not didn't matter—their judgment had already shaped him.

If you can't beat it, join it, they say.

"Why are you crying?"

A calm male voice on his right cut through his misery.

"Hmh?"

He muttered in surprise, lifting his head from the shield of his arms.

The voice wasn't threatening or judgmental.

It was a simple, traditional hello.

"What!!!"

He jolted up from the ground like he'd seen a snake—except this wasn't fear, just shock.

A man stood near him, squatting only a face away.

From body shape, he looked in his twenties. Medium height. Grey tracksuit with blue lines.

And the head-turner—a medium-sized blue motorcycle helmet covering his face.

On his feet were thin slippers. His skin looked smooth and delicate.

In his gloved hands, a transparent plastic bag filled with folded money.

"No need to be afraid,"

the man said, raising his hands like he was surrendering.

"Then why do you have your face covered!"

Zabi pointed at the helmet.

"Oooh that," the man chuckled.

"I saw it in a movie. Figured it makes me look cool."

A weird answer, especially for someone his age—but opinions, right?

Silence washed between them.

Zabi slowly pulled himself together, ready—maybe—to talk.

"Let's get back to you."

The man pointed at him, still squatting.

"Why were you crying?"

Zabi swallowed. The curiosity in the man felt genuine.

Even though he couldn't see his face, it felt like the man was listening.

Should I tell him? He sounds caring. He has a lot of money too… Fine, I'll tell him,

he decided.

Zabi lowered his head, ashamed. In Africa, asking another man for help is often seen as weakness.

"My dad fainted, so I brought him to the hospital."

The helmeted man tilted his head—a sign he was listening.

Zabi clenched his fists, teeth grinding as anger bubbled.

"When they started treating him, the mayor came in. Then one… one of them ordered all the doctors to leave my dad and help him instead. Even though my dad came first. And now… now he can't wake up."

Tears spat from his eyes as he broke down again.

The image replaying in his mind, haunting him like a stuck nightmare, fueling every violent emotion.

"Aaah…"

the man sighed, standing up calmly.

"I won't lie to you, kid. That's just how life is—unfair."

"I don't care about that!"

Zabi screamed, head lowered as tears dripped onto the filthy ground.

"Hmh."

The man murmured, curious.

"I already know that shit. It's the same thing back in Africa—the rich get richer while the poor stagger down, praising them just to eat leftovers!"

His voice echoed through the empty alley, sharp like a battle cry.

"I'm going to change that! No matter the cost! No matter what it fucking takes!"

His declaration hung in the air.

The man stared at him, amused… and speechless.

Zabi felt the awkward silence too—until:

"How are you going to do it?"

"What?"

Zabi blinked, thrown off. After all he said, that was the question?

"The changing-things stuff. How are you going to change them?"

"Ahm—"

He tried to explain, but the man cut him off.

"Because right now you're poor, weak, and broken. You wouldn't change a damn thing even if you tried."

The words stung—but they were true.

"Don't get me wrong," the man continued. "I like your idea. But it will take years of planning and resource gathering to make even a drop of difference."

Zabi's confidence faltered more with each sentence.

"But more importantly, you'll need support. The most support a person can get."

He paused.

"And luckily… I am that support."

Zabi froze.

For a second, he thought he was hallucinating.

But no—this was real.

Relief crashed into him.

Hope—something he thought died hours ago—sparked alive again.

Fwah—

He opened his mouth but only murmurs came out.

The man tossed the plastic bag full of money at him.

"That's for your troubles," he said casually, like giving money to strangers was nothing.

"And—"

Snap.

Ten thin rings appeared magically in his hands.

"These will give you everything you need to protect yourself."

He turned and began walking out of the alley as if their conversation was already over.

"Wait! Who are you!"

Zabi called out.

"My name is Veteran," the man answered without looking back.

"And I'll find you when I want to find you."

Then he stepped into the sunlight and vanished.

"What… just happened?"

Zabi whispered.

It wasn't common to meet a stranger who dumped money on you and promised to help you change the rotten system of the world.

"And these…"

He stared at the golden rings in his hand.

15 Years Later

He stands in the Mutts' residence—

melting the scissors Marie Mutt threw at him with his bare fingers.

And woven into his hair, hidden in his dreadlocks,

one of the rings glows.

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