Live from the Alley
“We’re coming to you live from Flushing’s infamous back alley,” the reporter announced, trying to stay composed as background chants and chaos echoed around her.
Behind her, a ragtag group of locals waved signs, chanted nonsense, and argued about whose turn it was to hold the megaphone. The cause of the unrest? The Humble Organization’s plan to convert the alley into a homeless shelter.
“The proposal, while intended to help the city’s unhoused population,” the reporter explained, “has sparked outrage from nearby residents who claim it would destroy local culture and, quote—‘erase our childhood memories.’”
Front and center stood Canelo—leaning against a bent streetlamp, his signature hoodie and cracked leather jeans soaked in street attitude. A cigarette dangled from his lips, ash curling off in the wind. He held a big cardboard protest sign that read:
“GET OUT OF OUR ALLEY – PROTECT OUR CHILDHOOD”
Except… it was upside down. And he didn’t even notice.
He jabbed a finger at the camera, his voice rising above the noise.
“You think this place is just trash and concrete? We grew up here, bled here, fought here! This alley made us!”
Then, noticing the reporter too close with the mic, he took a slow drag of his cigarette and muttered:
“Get that mic outta my face… unless you want me to beat the crap outta you.”
The reporter blinked, half-froze, and quickly turned to the camera.
“We’ll now try to speak with other protesters… for a broader perspective.”
Wrong Man, Right Appetite
Just as she turned to find her next interviewee, she froze. Standing a few feet away was a tall, broad-shouldered man—filthy, sweaty, and wearing a torn, stinking T-shirt and a pair of stained shorts. The stains were suspicious. One of them might’ve been actual feces.
The reporter visibly recoiled, discreetly covering her nose with one hand while still holding the mic with the other. She walked toward him slowly, like approaching a wild animal.
“Excuse me, sir—could we ask you a few questions about the protest today?”
The man didn’t even look at her. His left hand was holding a full bottle of Pepsi, which he guzzled like it was his last drink on Earth. His right hand was gripping a half-squashed hamburger, already halfway into his mouth.
The reporter raised her voice.
“Sir, do you have any thoughts about today’s protest? Why are you here?”
The man, cheeks puffed with food, mumbled something barely intelligible. Through mouthfuls of burger and soda, he managed to say:
“Huh? Protest? …I dunno nothin’ about no protest. I just heard they had free food…”
There was an awkward pause.
The reporter let out a small, forced laugh.
“Looks like this gentleman isn’t part of the protest at all.”
Tom, still chewing, wiped his greasy fingers across his own filthy shirt and reached for a second burger from his plastic bag.
“Well, enjoy the food, sir,” the reporter said, backing away gently. “Let’s see if we can find someone actually involved.”
The Trapped Hero
As she walked away from Tom, a man’s voice echoed nearby.
“Damn it—get off me! Let go!”
She turned the corner and saw a man awkwardly twisted against the side of a wall, his right leg jammed deep inside a hole in the concrete. He was struggling violently, pulling and jerking with all his might.
He wore a half-buttoned shirt and had a Chinese flag draped across his shoulders like a cape. Even in distress, he looked dramatic.
It was Sean.
The reporter cautiously stepped forward.
“Sir… it appears you’re here for the protest. Mind telling us what’s going on here?”
Sean didn’t even look at her at first—he was too busy grunting and tugging.
“I—I kicked this damn wall too hard, okay? Now I’m stuck! Can you help me out? I’m Sean! Everyone knows me. I’m the hero of this community!”
The reporter blinked, surprised.
“Wait… you’re that Sean? The local hero?”
Then she squinted, as if recalling something from his past.
“Actually, I’ve been curious—how did someone who used to be a notorious gangster, who served three years in prison, end up as a respected figure?”
That stopped Sean cold. His whole body froze. His jaw locked. His eyes sharpened like daggers.
“Hey. Hey. Don’t start spouting rumors. You hear me? Slander is a serious offense. I don’t wanna hear that crap. Back off.”
The tension was sharp enough to cut through the wall.
The reporter, clearly unsettled, gave a small nod.
“Understood. Hope you can get yourself out soon.”
She turned to leave.
And just then—Sean let out a shriek.
“AAHHH—WHAT THE HELL?!”
He started kicking wildly, panicking.
“SOMEONE’S INSIDE! SOMEONE’S INSIDE THIS WALL! THEY TOOK OFF MY SHOE—THEY’RE TICKLING MY FOOT! I’M GONNA DIE IN HERE!”
His voice echoed down the alley. The reporter didn’t turn back. She picked up her pace.
“We’ll… check in with someone a little more stable.”
The Forgotten Perv
Next up… was Benson.
He had been staring at the reporter for a while now. Not because he had anything important to say—nah. He just wanted to get on TV. More importantly, he wanted her to notice him. Maybe even smile at him. Maybe he could say something smooth. Something impressive. Something that would make her look at him differently.
But really, he was just staring at her cleavage.
As she walked in his direction, Benson lit up. He quickly ran a greasy hand through his ridiculous watermelon-shaped hair. Tried to fix his shirt collar like that would help. Cleared his throat twice. Practiced a weak smile that ended up looking more like a constipation face.
She was getting close. This was it. His moment.
The reporter raised the mic—and Benson immediately reached out for it like a game show contestant getting his one shot. He had no real opinions about the protest. No clever slogans. He just wanted to say something. Anything. Impress her. Be seen. Maybe throw in a compliment like,
“I care about the community… and uh, you got pretty eyes.”
But it didn’t happen.
The reporter didn’t give him the mic. Didn’t even slow down.
She took one glance at him and turned to her cameraman.
“This guy looks like a total weirdo. Probably not even part of the protest. Let’s skip him.”
She walked right past without a second thought.
Benson froze. His arm was still halfway out. His lips were parted, but no sound came out. His half-smile slid off his face like a dying lightbulb.
He didn’t say a word. He didn’t move. He just stood there, staring at her back as she disappeared into the crowd. Like a lonely stray dog watching someone toss meat to someone else’s pet.
No quote.
No screen time.
Just another silent rejection.
The Forgotten Perv.
The Golden Bowl
The reporter continued walking through the crowd and came to a man sitting calmly near a wall. He wore an outdated railroad worker uniform—something straight out of the 1950s—and his skin looked oddly rough, almost wrinkled, like time had treated him unkindly. She assumed he must be one of the elderly residents.
With a polite nod, she raised the mic.
“Excuse me, old-timer, can I ask you a quick question? What are your thoughts on today’s protest?”
The man blinked, furrowed his brow, and leaned slightly forward.
“What are you talking about? I’m only 18 years old,” he said.
The reporter froze.
“Oh! I—I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean anything by it… just a slip of the tongue!”
She gave a quick, nervous laugh and adjusted the mic.
“Anyway… could you share why you’re here?”
“I come here every day,” he said. “This is where I work. So of course, I don’t want it turned into some shelter.”
She blinked.
“Work? But… I don’t see any shops or offices here. What do you mean by work?”
He answered without hesitation.
“I’m a professional beggar.”
She gave him a puzzled look and laughed.
“A professional beggar? Really? That’s a new one, old-ti—uh…”
She winced slightly, realizing she’d slipped again.
Still calm, Lawson reached under his coat and pulled out a ceramic rice bowl. It was old, slightly chipped. But the moment he placed it down in front of him, it glowed faintly with a warm golden light.
The reporter’s entire expression shifted. Her eyes softened. Her lips parted slightly as a deep, genuine compassion rose in her chest. She didn’t hesitate. She opened her purse and began pulling out all the cash she had. Then, without blinking, she slipped off her diamond wedding ring and gently placed it into the bowl as well.
She looked him in the eyes with total sincerity.
“You deserve it,” she said. “People like you… you’re the soul of this city.”
Lawson simply nodded.
As the golden glow faded, she took a breath and smiled—not confused, not dazed, but absolutely convinced that she had done something meaningful and right.
“Well… take care, old–” she caught herself again, but it was already out.
“–timer. Stay safe, alright?”
Then she turned and walked off, feeling strangely proud of what she’d done.
Lawson quietly slipped the bowl back into his coat, leaned against the wall, and closed his eyes—like none of it surprised him at all.
The Quiet Cancellation
On the rooftop of a five-story building, a slim figure stood silently. He wore a black tank top and a pair of Nike shorts, his lean frame barely making a sound against the concrete surface. His eyes glowed faintly with a golden shimmer as he looked down at the crowd below, calmly observing everything that had happened at the protest.
The wind fluttered his shirt slightly as he remained still—watching, analyzing.
Suddenly, the scene cut to a pitch-black office.
Inside, a shadowy figure sat in a large executive chair, legs crossed, back facing the camera.
A faint voice came from the guy in the tank top, now standing near the office door.
“Boss,” he said, “I went to the protest site today. They’re all weaklings. Not a single one stood out in strength. But… I could tell they really love that alley. They’re attached to it. Deeply.”
The man in the chair leaned back slowly. A cold, bored voice responded:
“Oh, I see.”
The screen faded to black.
Later that night, a breaking news alert flashed across the TV screen.
The same female reporter appeared on camera, looking surprised but composed.
“This just in,” she announced. “The Humble Organization has suddenly decided to terminate its plan to build a large-scale homeless shelter in the alley. The project has been officially scrapped.”