The morning sun clawed its way through the jagged gaps between the slum's ramshackle roofs, painting the narrow alleys in hues of gold and rust. A whispering breeze slithered through the maze of tin and tarp, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and yesterday's regrets. Then—like a blade slicing through silence—a rooster's crow tore through the air, a merciless herald of the day's cruel beginning.
A young man staggered from the shadows of his crumbling dwelling, his body heavy with exhaustion, his mind still fogged by the remnants of fractured dreams. He dragged himself toward the makeshift washroom, the cold bite of the water on his face doing little to shake the weight of his weariness. But then—his hands groped empty air where his clothes should have been.
A heartbeat.
A pause.
Then—realization struck like lightning.
His breath hitched. His blood turned to ice. His eyes, once clouded with sleep, snapped wide with horror.
Gone.
His clothes—his last decent set—vanished into the night like ghosts. His fingers trembled. His jaw clenched. A storm of thoughts raged—Who? When? How?—but only one truth remained, undeniable, inescapable:
He had been robbed.
"NO!" His scream ripped through the slum, raw and primal, shaking the very foundations of the rickety homes around him. His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles white with fury. "I'VE BEEN ROBBED!"
Laughter—cruel, mocking, unrelenting—answered him.
George, his grizzled neighbor, leaned against a rotting post, a smirk twisting his lips as he raised a chipped cup of stale beer to his mouth. "Ha!" he barked, his voice like gravel. "Looks like someone's morning just got a whole lot worse!"
Kevin, his so-called friend and workmate, sauntered into the compound, taking in the scene with amused detachment. "Damn," he drawled, shaking his head. "You look like a man who just lost his last shred of dignity. What happened? Forget where you left your pants?"
The young man whirled on them, his voice trembling with barely contained rage. "I was ROBBED! One of my BEST clothes—GONE!"
George threw his head back and roared with laughter. "You? Robbed? More like you lost 'em in a drunken stupor!"
Emily, her voice soft but sharp, cut in. "George, stop it. Can't you see he's upset?"
Kevin snorted. "Upset? More like careless." He crossed his arms, grinning. "Remember when he lost his book in the market? Swore a thief took it—turned out he left it in the damn latrine!"
The group erupted—laughter crashing over the young man like a tidal wave, drowning his fury in their merciless amusement.
George leaned in, his breath reeking of cheap alcohol, his voice a venomous whisper. "Oh, you've got a long day ahead of you, my friend." His grin was a knife. "If you know what I mean."
The young man's glare could have burned cities. But the laughter didn't stop. It followed him, nipping at his heels like wild dogs as he stormed away, his face burning with humiliation.
The slum had spoken.
And today—today was going to be hell.