mark

Mark was born into a humble family, in a small house in a neighborhood where tranquility was a luxury lost amidst the noise of motorcycles and the shouts of gangs. His mother worked long hours cleaning other people's houses, and his father, when he could, did repairs in makeshift workshops. From childhood, Mark learned that life didn't give anything away; that every coin was earned with effort, sweat, and sometimes, blood.

As he grew older, the neighborhood became more dangerous. Fights were commonplace, and young people joined gangs to survive. Mark didn't join for fame or power, but out of necessity. He discovered that underground fights provided quick cash, enough to buy food and pay for his mother's medicine. Thus, the quiet boy became a respected gang member, known for his strength and cold stare.

At university, where hardly any students weren't gang members, Mark kept to himself. He didn't go looking for trouble, but he didn't avoid it either. His scarred body spoke for him: each wound was a story, each blow a lesson. Sometimes, as he walked through the broken streets of the neighborhood, he'd see luxury cars drive by with rich kids inside, laughing and looking down on the poor.

Those moments ignited something inside him. It wasn't envy, it was rage. Rage at the injustice, at the arrogance of those who had never known hunger or fear. The rich kids, with their clean clothes and fake smiles, looked at him as if he were trash. Some even dared to insult him, to call him ugly, to mock his worn-out clothes. Mark learned to ignore them, but deep down he hated them. He hated their perfect world, their superficial beauty, their belief that money made them superior.

Sometimes, while watching television in her small room, she would think about what it would be like to live without worrying about money, without having to fight every week to survive.

Mark was born into a humble family, in a small house in a neighborhood where tranquility was a luxury lost amidst the noise of motorcycles and the shouts of gangs. His mother worked long hours cleaning other people's houses, and his father, when he could, did repairs in makeshift workshops. From childhood, Mark learned that life didn't give anything away; that every coin was earned with effort, sweat, and sometimes, blood.

As he grew older, the neighborhood became more dangerous. Fights were commonplace, and young people joined gangs to survive. Mark didn't join for fame or power, but out of necessity. He discovered that underground fights provided quick cash, enough to buy food and pay for his mother's medicine. Thus, the quiet boy became a respected gang member, known for his strength and cold stare.

At university, where hardly any students weren't gang members, Mark kept to himself. He didn't go looking for trouble, but he didn't avoid it either. His scarred body spoke for him: each wound was a story, each blow a lesson. Sometimes, as he walked through the broken streets of the neighborhood, he'd see luxury cars drive by with rich kids inside, laughing and looking down on the poor.

Those moments ignited something inside him. It wasn't envy, it was rage. Rage at the injustice, at the arrogance of those who had never known hunger or fear. The rich kids, with their clean clothes and fake smiles, looked at him as if he were trash. Some even dared to insult him, to call him ugly, to mock his worn-out clothes. Mark learned to ignore them, but deep down he hated them. He hated their perfect world, their superficial beauty, their belief that money made them superior.

Sometimes, while watching television in her small room, she would think about what it would be like to live without worrying about money, without having to fight every week to survive.