They say if you see one, run because the other three aren’t far behind.

Four boys, no older than thirteen, but the world carved the softness out of them early. Parents? Gone. Homes? Burned. All they had was each other.

They moved like shadows in a broken world, scavenging, tricking, stealing. They’d smile at you with dirt on their cheeks and knives behind their backs not because they hated you, but because survival wasn’t personal. It was math. Four mouths. Four lives.

They took what they needed: coats off backs, food from trembling hands. Once, they locked a man in a freezing car overnight just to take his boots. One stayed to watch him breathe his last breath while the others built a fire nearby, laughing softly.

But at night, they huddled together. One would hum a song their mother used to sing. Another would keep watch. They all slept light, except the youngest he always got the warmest spot.

They weren’t good.
They weren’t evil.
They were each other’s world.

And in a world that took everything, that was more sacred than any god.