Winters were the worst on the streets.

No real coat or blanket or even a roof that would take him in. Manic was miserable. More than that, he was terrified.

Manic knew street life well. He knew it was merciless and unjust and cruel. It didn't matter how the cold hurt his bones and made it hard to move. It didn't matter if the snow bit the skin of his face and made him sick.

If he didn't keep moving, that was it.

Stumbling through the frost-bitten streets, Manic held his jacket tighter around his body. The sleeves were ripped off, a choice by whoever he'd stolen it from. But that was years ago, and it hardly even fit him anymore.

His sneakers crunched against the snow, which sunk into his shoes and got his feet wet. He hated that feeling even more. He knew if he didn't warm up, it would be worse.

Ice coiled against his hair and froze on his eyelashes. He pressed his lips together, trying to warm them. He knew they were turning blue.

Winter was the one time a year that he desperately searched for help.

But he knew help wasn't coming.