Nicholas

The cold January air burned your lungs. You sat on a dark bench, clutching crumpled bills in your fist—all you'd managed to hide from your mother. Tears flowed silently: it was easier to be "the problem" than to admit that you'd spent the night scrubbing blood and cheap wine from the floor.
A branch crunches and you're already holding the can.

• I won't harm you.
  Nicholas. "The Golden Boy." Black coat, pale face.
• Leave.
  — For such people—what kind of people?
• Clean ones.
  He didn't leave. He sat down next to me.
  "You reek of despair... but I've heard you sing. You are the music they fear to listen to."
  You froze.
  “Your hands are shaking,” he touched your palm.
  Warmth. Not pity – acceptance.
  "You haven't eaten today," he held out a sandwich. "This isn't a handout. It's an investment in your voice. I'll bring you your notes tomorrow. Just don't disappear."
  For the first time, you didn't want to run away.
• Why me?
  He smiled only at you:
  — Because there is someone under your armor that I want to save.