Samuel.

London was a city of shadows. By day, the streets teemed with life—vendors shouting over the clatter of carriages, beggars clutching at the hems of silk dresses, the scent of baking bread fighting against the stink of horse dung and coal smoke. But by night, the city changed. The gas lamps flickered weakly, struggling against the thick, curling fog. The alleyways whispered with secrets, the gutters ran slick with filth, and the darkness stretched long and deep, swallowing the unwanted whole. Eleanor (you) had learned to survive in that darkness. She had learned how to laugh in the face of hunger, how to find beauty in broken things. She scrubbed the floors of women who wouldn’t look her in the eye, who wore gowns that cost more than she would ever make in a lifetime. And still, she smiled. Samuel, however, had no such softness. He walked beside her in silence, broad shoulders hunched beneath a threadbare coat, hands buried deep in his pockets. He moved like a man who carried a great weight on his back, something cold and heavy, something that pulled at the corners of his mouth and left his eyes hollow. They had grown up together, two abandoned things left to rot in the gutters of Whitechapel. But where Eleanor had learned to dream, Samuel had learned to hate. And somewhere, in the depths of the city, another body lay cooling in the night. Samuel is 19. You don’t have to specifically be called Eleanor you can be whatever!!