Afterward

The Warehouse

Shots rang out inside the warehouse—bullets shredded crates, glass exploded in a shower of sparks, and smoke mingled with the acrid smell of gunpowder.

After what felt like an eternity, a young man stumbled out, pressing his hand against a bleeding belly.

“Shit!” he gasped, collapsing against a wall, chest heaving.

Blood soaked his hand, warm and sticky. The chaos inside became undeniable. Without pressure, it gushed uncontrollably. Pain and exhaustion blurred his senses; distant sounds from the city became muted echoes. Darkness crept at the edges of his vision. Tears stung his eyes.

“I don’t want to die here,” he whispered.

“Hey! Mister! Wake up, you deadbeat!”

The voice jolted him. He blinked, focusing on a boy standing over him.

“Where… am I?” he croaked.

“You’re in an alley, sleeping on trash,” the boy said with a smirk, tossing a piece of garbage aside.

The smirk annoyed him, though he couldn’t remember why. In fact, he couldn’t remember anything—not even his own name.

“What’s my name?” he asked, frustration twisting his gut.

“Wow… must’ve been an epic party if you forgot your name,” the boy replied, rummaging through the nearby trash.

“Party… huh,” the young man muttered, trying to summon a memory. Sharp pains in his head and belly made it impossible. Still, a nagging sense of urgency pressed against his mind, though he couldn’t name the reason.

He glanced at the boy, still digging.

“Hey, kid. I need a place to crash. This trash heap isn’t exactly ideal.”

“How much you got?”

Caught off guard, the young man checked his pockets—nothing.

“I don’t have anything,” he admitted.

“Then I got nothing for ya, ya bum,” the boy said.

“But once I recover, I’ll make it worth your while,” the young man said.

“How?”

“Think about it. How much booze does it take to knock someone out so badly they forget their own name? Either a lot… or expensive stuff. Either way, a lot of money had to be spent.”

The boy paused, considering. Trash’s logic made sense. Alcohol like that wasn’t cheap. If he could afford it, he had resources.

“Alright,” the boy finally said.

“Alright what?”

“I’ve got a place you can crash. Follow me.”

The Alley and the Warehouse

Their pace was slow, but eventually, the cityscape gave way to an abandoned warehouse. Dust hung in the air, and the place smelled faintly of mildew and rust. Yet, it felt strangely familiar.

“What’s wrong?” the boy asked.

“Nothing… just feels familiar,” he said, trying to ignore the pang of recognition.

“My name’s Samuel. Sam for short.”

“You don’t have any friends,” the young man said instinctively.

Sam frowned.

“So… what do I call you?”

“Call me Sam,” he said, grimacing at the mental blank.

“How about Trash?”

“Seriously?”

“Found you in the trash. You don’t even know your name. Trash it is.”

Too weak to argue, he accepted it, finding a corner to sit and slipping into unconsciousness almost immediately.

Minutes later, Sam shook him awake.

“Get up and hide. My dad’s here.”

Confused and in pain, Trash obeyed. As he crouched, adrenaline sharpened his senses. The clatter of boots, the metallic tang of tension—it all pressed against him.

A loud crash echoed. Trash peeked out and saw Sam pinned against a wall by two men. One shouted orders, the other loomed like a mountain.

Without thinking, Trash grabbed a pipe and swung. The first man fell, but the second overpowered him.

“Who are these guys?” Trash gasped.

“My dad… and his friend,” Sam admitted.

Trash’s eyes darted between them. The pipe-wielding thug towered over him, fury in every motion. But then, a sharp click rang out—a gun. Sam had drawn his father’s weapon.

Time froze. Sam’s hands shook, the weight of years of fear and pain evident. Trash understood instinctively. This was Sam’s choice.

“You’ll end up like me,” Trash whispered, voice cutting through chaos.

Sam blinked. “What?”

“Your dad… he deserves to be stopped. Mine did too.”

Sam’s hand wavered. The thug lunged. Trash tackled him, wrestling him to the ground. Weaker as he was, he bought Sam the seconds he needed. Sam backed away, gun still raised, until he could escape safely, letting the weapon fall behind him.

Trash absorbed the blows silently. Blacking out, the last thing he saw was Sam’s father looming, pipe raised.

The White Room

Trash awoke in a room of pure white light. Pain was gone, though his body felt strange, weightless. The air was soft and smelled faintly of ozone. A voice echoed:

“Don’t worry. The boy is safe.”

Trash looked. A humanoid figure glowed, radiating warmth and calm. Despite the absurdity, he trusted it.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“I’m a friend,” the voice replied.

Trash tried to recall the day—the warehouse, the fight—but his mind faltered, fragments of memory floating like smoke.

“What do you remember about today?”

“I… have a headache. Probably broken bones. You’ll need to be more specific,” Trash said, voice weak.

“Do you recall being shot?”

Trash frowned. “Shot? No…”

Images flashed—warehouse, chaos, near-death. “I… I was shot,” he whispered.

“Your wounds were fatal,” the figure continued. “Your regret drew our attention. A test was created.”

“A test?” Trash echoed, unease prickling at his spine.

“You guided someone through a critical point in their life. Your choices determined whether they would suffer as you did or take a different path.”

Trash realized—Sam, the boy, was a younger version of himself.

“You prevented him from becoming the person you were,” the voice said.

The weight hit Trash. He had saved Sam—but now he felt himself fading.

“Yes,” the voice continued, “compassion dwells still in your soul, though brokenness once defined you. Farewell, Samuel.”