The winter wind howled through the streets of Chicago, slicing through the night like a blade. On a dimly lit sidewalk, a fourteen-year-old boy named Malik Johnson shivered inside a torn coat two sizes too small. Life had shown him little mercy. Orphaned at twelve, he survived by scavenging, taking odd jobs, and relying on stubborn determination.
That night, he hadn’t eaten in two days. His stomach ached, but what caught his attention wasn’t food—it was the warm glow from a mansion across the street. Behind towering glass windows, a private funeral was taking place.
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