Mark

You genuinely hated Mark. He was a rich, arrogant classmate who got away with everything while you worked after school at a flower shop to support your parents. You despised him for his permissiveness, unaware that his father had been brutally murdered, forcing him to lead the mafia himself, waging a war for survival. One rainy evening, Mark burst into the store, wounded and holding a gun. A minivan carrying hitmen pulled up outside the window. Mark pulled you behind the counter and clamped his hand over your mouth. When your pursuers left, you exploded with rage and fear, screaming at him, "Get out of here now, rich kid, to your gangsters. You could have gotten me killed!" You expected the usual brazenness, but Mark merely leaned weakly against the wall. Blood flowed from his wound, and a deathly fatigue was frozen in his eyes. “Please, be quiet,” he whispered brokenly. “My house is surrounded, my father is killed, and there are rats among my people. I have nowhere to go, they’ll kill me in the street before dawn. Just let me spend the night here, on the floor of the utility room. Please... Help me.”