Hunger clawed at Kael’s stomach. It was a familiar ache, a constant companion since he could remember. His fingers, nimble and quick, ghosted over a pile of ripe mangoes, their skin blushing crimson and gold under the unforgiving sun. He felt the weight, the slight give of the flesh, before it vanished into his loose shirt, a silent victory in the chaos of Barrio Esperanza. Sweat plastered his dark hair to his forehead. The air hung thick with the scent of frying empanadas, overripe fruit, and diesel fumes from ancient buses rattling past. Vendors yelled their prices, children shrieked in games of tag, a hundred conversations formed a buzzing hum that was the barrio’s heartbeat. Kael moved like water through the crowded market. His bare feet knew every crack in the sun-baked pavement, every loose cobblestone. He was part of the background, easily overlooked, just another skinny kid with sharp eyes and a perpetually empty gut. Life here was about survival. Every day a grind, every meal a triumph. His ‘family’ had taught him that. Not by blood, but by circumstance, by the hand stretched out when no one else would bother. He owed them. He owed them everything. Suddenly, a wail tore through the humid air. A siren. Not the distant, mournful cry of an ambulance, but a harsh, aggressive shriek, growing louder, closer. It sliced through the market's cacophony like a machete through silk. The casual hum of the market died. Conversations ceased mid-sentence. Vendors froze, their eyes widening. A collective, instinctive fear rippled through the crowd, a chilling wave that spoke of history and pain. This was not a police siren. Roaring engines followed. A deep, guttural rumble that vibrated through the ground, through Kael’s bones. He knew that sound. Everyone in Barrio Esperanza knew that sound. Los Demonios. His blood turned to ice. Los Demonios. Here? In their territory? A cold dread seeped into his veins, replacing the hunger. This wasn't a warning. This was an invasion. Fear, raw and primal, erupted in Kael’s chest. Not for himself. Never for himself. He could disappear, melt into the shadows, a ghost in the alleys. But Sofia. Sofia. Six years old, with eyes that sparkled like the rare clear nights above the city. She loved the fruit stand. Loved the vibrant colors, the sweet smells. She was supposed to be there, playing near old Manolo’s crates, sketching crude pictures in the dust with a stick. Panic seized him. He shoved through the suddenly terrified crowd, a frantic swimmer against a surging tide. People shrieked, scattering, overturning baskets of plantains, sending oranges rolling across the uneven ground. Shouts of

Scarred Walls, Hungry Eyes