The shattered glass crunched beneath Marcus’s feet as he stumbled backward, blood trickling from his split lip. The enraged face of his attacker loomed before him, contorted with hate. “You don’t belong here,” the man snarled, fist already cocked for another blow.
Marcus’s eyes darted desperately to the impassive security guard watching from the end of the aisle. Surely now he’d intervene. Instead, the guard simply turned and walked away.
Marcus Johnson, 42 years old, lived a life of quiet routine in the bustling city of Oakland, California. His modest apartment in the diverse Fruitvale neighborhood was a sanctuary from the chaos of the outside world. Every morning, he’d wake before dawn, brew a strong cup of coffee, and savor the stillness before the city stirred to life.
As an accountant at a midsized firm downtown, Marcus found satisfaction in the orderly nature of numbers. His colleagues respected his meticulous work ethic and calm demeanor, yet beneath his professional exterior, Marcus harbored dreams of something more. He longed to start his own accounting practice, to….Read Full Story Here…………..
