The girl's lips twitched upward, a movement that was meant to be a smile—
But Hope noticed immediately.
It wasn't a real smile.
It never reached her eyes.
Her expression remained cool, unreadable, as if she was simply mimicking an emotion rather than feeling it.
Hope stared for a second, then shook his head, brushing the thought aside.
Not his problem.
He scratched his head absentmindedly, then muttered,
"My name is Hopeless."
He said it quickly, without much thought—
Not because he wanted to share it.
But because it was better to just get it over with.
She would've asked anyway.
He'd rather not drag it out.
The girl tilted her head slightly, her blue eyes studying him.
For a moment, there was nothing but silence.
Then, slowly, a small flicker of bemusement crawled onto her face.
"Your parents named you that?"
Hope snorted lightly.
"Not really parents," he muttered, leaning back.
"But it's a name I recognize."
Then he shrugged, as if it didn't matter.
"You can call me whatever you like. Don't care."
That was the truth.
Names were just words.
They only mattered if you let them.
At least, that's what he told himself.
But—
That wasn't his real name.
Not the one he had first chosen for himself.
Once, a long time ago, he had called himself Hope.
A name he found by accident.
Growing up in the Outskirts, where the streets were cracked and littered with forgotten things, he had seen an old, tattered sticker.
It had been stuck to a rusted metal door, barely legible, but the words were still there:
"The Saints are the Hope of Humanity."
He didn't know what it meant.
Didn't care.
But the word Hope stood out.
At the time, he was just a kid—
Weak.
Nameless.
And in his mind, the word Hope sounded strong.
It sounded like something a powerful person would have.
So he took it.
Claimed it for himself.
Decided that if he had to be called something, then Hope was good enough.
For a while, it worked.
Until—
He remembered the first time he had ever told someone.
It was another Outskirt rat like him.
Another scavenger.
The guy had been slightly older, missing a few teeth, his face roughened by the streets.
"Your name?" the guy had asked.
Hope, back then still just a skinny kid, had answered,
"Hope."
For a few seconds, there had been silence.
Then the guy burst out laughing.
Not just a chuckle.
Not even a normal laugh.
A full, wheezing, almost painful kind of laughter—
So hard that he nearly coughed up blood.
Hope had stared, confused, until the guy finally choked out—
"You? Hope? Hah—You hopeless pig!"
And just like that—
The name had stuck.
Followed him like a scent.
No matter where he went, it clung to him, passed from one mouth to another.
"Hopeless."
At some point, he just accepted it.
He wasn't Hope.
Not really.
Just another rat in the gutter.
And if that was the case—
Then the name fit, didn't it?