Davo had not peered down the barrel of a gun in ages, and under the blazing midday sun that turned the market into a shimmering haze, he now wondered if this time might be his last. Sweat dripped from his brow in steady rivulets, stinging his eyes as fear pulsed through his veins. The sour stench of uncollected trash and overripe fruit clung to the humid air, mingling with the sharp tang of gun oil wafting from the weapon aimed at him. A handful of older teens pinned him to the baking pavement, their sneakers scuffing his ribs as their self-appointed ringleader—a lanky boy with an uneven buzz cut—tilted his head and fixed Davo with a cocky smirk.
"You really thought you'd just saunter onto our turf and play thief?" the teenager sneered, his voice cutting through the din of merchants touting their wares and shoppers squabbling over prices. Beneath frayed tarps and faded banners, vendors hawked battered produce and questionable goods, the thick reek of sweat and hot spices filling the air. Not far off, a scraggly pack of feral, dog-like creatures slunk among the rickety stalls, their glowing eyes searching hungrily for scraps. A furious shopkeeper—his face flushed an alarming shade of red—bellowed accusations in Davo's direction, arms waving like broken windmills.
Davo clutched the pilfered bundle of dried fruit and stale bread closer to his chest, silently cursing his rotten luck. He had ventured beyond his usual hunting grounds only out of desperation—food had become scarce, and this cramped, sweltering market seemed like his last hope for a decent haul. Now, pressed against the sizzling ground and acutely aware of the heat searing through his clothes, he scrambled to think of a quick-witted retort or at least a shred of bluff to appease the pistol-wielding teen who basked in the raucous encouragement of his companions.
"Go on," the teen taunted, jerking the weapon upward in an exaggerated flourish. "Give me one good reason not to leave you here as a warning to every other two-bit crook." His words brimmed with the raw swagger of someone reveling in a deadly new toy. Onlookers hovered around the edges of the commotion, peering out from beneath ragged parasols as they struggled to keep curiosity and caution in balance. The relentless sun beat down on every exposed inch of flesh, and Davo's throat felt parched as the teen's finger tightened on the trigger.
He could practically taste the chalky dust stirred up by the jostling crowd, while the thick humidity clung to each breath like a damp veil. A single thought pounded relentlessly in his mind: if only he had picked a different stall—or a different day. The shopkeeper's shrill accusations still cut through the haze, and across from him, the smug teen lifted his chin in defiance. Davo's mouth went dry as he searched for the right words—anything to placate his captor before events spiraled out of control. But in that moment, the afternoon light glinted off the weapon's barrel—
Davo let out a weak chuckle, his voice a strained whisper of defiance. "I'll give it back," he said, as if offering a final jest to the universe. A wave of heat shimmered between them, carrying the acrid stench of scorching pavement and sweaty bodies pressed too close in the bustling market.
The teen looming over him, a wiry figure with hollow cheeks and a chipped tooth, shook his head slowly, a smug grin creeping across his face. Despite his ragged tank top and threadbare jeans, he moved with a cocksure swagger that marked him as a local gang member. The moment for mercy had clearly passed. His grip on the pistol tightened, and he leaned in, his breath reeking of cheap cigarettes and street food. "Nah, see... these shopkeepers? They're under my protection," he drawled, his words dripping with the exaggerated bravado of the local gang dialect. "And respect, man... respect don't come free."
Davo's stomach twisted. He knew exactly what that meant. The so-called "protection" these wannabe gangsters offered was nothing more than extortion, a thinly veiled shakedown that drained the market's struggling vendors dry. He could hear the low growl of half-starved stray dogs slinking beneath rickety carts, their eyes glowing like tiny embers in the gloomy spaces under the stalls. Even these mangy creatures seemed to sense the tension, keeping a cautious distance. Now, Davo was about to be the gang's latest example—proof that defying them came with a steep price. It was painfully clear the boy with the gun was itching to prove himself, desperate for his first kill to solidify his status among the sneering crowd that stirred restlessly around them.
The tension in the market thickened like the humid air, every breath heavy with anticipation. Vendors whispered anxiously behind their stalls, some clutching their wares with white-knuckled grips. A few bystanders, emboldened by the spectacle, shouted encouragement. "Do it! Show him what happens to thieves!" they jeered, their voices harsh and eager for blood. Others, however, murmured in disapproval, shifting uncomfortably as they pleaded, "That's enough, let the kid go. He's not worth it." Their urgent whispers mingled with the buzzing of flies drawn to the sweet overripe fruit on wooden tables and the pungent tang of spilled fish guts baking in the midday sun.
Pinned down, Davo found himself silently rooting for the latter, though their voices seemed to be swallowed by the heat and chaos of the market. The gunman squared his shoulders, his face set with grim determination. He pulled the trigger with a sharp thud, his eyes alight with the thrill of impending violence. The sound echoed off nearby stalls, momentarily silencing even the scrawny dogs that had been stalking scraps in the dusty corners.
Davo shut his eyes tight, bracing for the inevitable. A second stretched into an eternity. No sharp crack of a gunshot, no searing pain, no darkness swallowing him whole. Slowly, cautiously, he peeked open one eye.
The gang leader frowned, confusion flickering across his face as he stared at the gun. He cocked it, shook it, and tried again. Another pull of the trigger. Another empty click. Frustration twisted his features, his earlier confidence crumbling with every failed attempt. A nervous titter rippled through the tense onlookers, though they kept a wary distance, fearful of stray bullets if the weapon decided to discharge after all.
A ripple of nervous laughter spread through the crowd, but the gunman's scowl deepened. "Old-fashioned way, then," he growled, shoving the useless weapon into his waistband. His fingers dipped beneath his shirt, emerging with a long, wicked-looking knife that gleamed in the sunlight like something born from nightmares. There was a collective intake of breath from onlookers, a sharp hiss of horror mixed with the lingering odors of sweat and desperation. He ran a thumb along the edge, testing it with a sickening grin before stepping toward Davo, his eyes dark with intent.
Davo's heart pounded against his ribs as the knife came down. He felt it—saw the blade strike true—but instead of pain, there was... nothing. No blood, no tearing of flesh, only a strange, almost metallic resistance. A collective gasp echoed through the market, wide-eyed spectators stepping back in shock. The gang leader's face contorted in disbelief, his grip on the knife tightening as he stabbed again. And again.
Each strike met the same resistance, as if the blade were colliding with something unseen and impenetrable. A hush fell over the market, an eerie silence punctuated only by the ragged breathing of the baffled assailant. Whispers rippled through the crowd, eyes darting between Davo and the weapon in bewilderment.
Davo, just as stunned as the rest, looked down at himself, his pulse thundering in his ears. The knife should have ended him, and yet here he was—untouched, alive. Something was very, very wrong.
The gang and the surrounding crowd recoiled, their expressions frozen in a blend of horror and disbelief, as if Davo had suddenly become something otherworldly—an omen draped in tattered clothes and desperation. Murmurs swept through the market like an invisible wave, some hissing fearful prayers while others stumbled back in frantic retreat. A few bolted entirely, knocking over baskets of overripe fruit and sending chickens squawking in panicked flurries of feathers.
Davo didn't wait to see what would happen next. His legs moved before his mind caught up, springing him to his feet with a speed that startled even himself. Without a backward glance, he shot through the parted crowd, a streak of motion slipping through the tight maze of bodies and stalls. The market, a chaotic sprawl of humanity and goods, blurred around him—the sweltering press of sweating bodies, the clatter of carts, and the thick, acrid stench of rotting vegetables and unwashed flesh. Vendors yelled curses at his retreating form, their voices mixing with the distant bleating of goats and the rhythmic clanging of makeshift pots.
He ducked under a swinging crate of dried fish, veered sharply past a woman balancing an enormous basket on her head, and leapt over a pile of discarded rags with the agility of someone who had spent his entire life evading trouble. The sun blazed overhead, turning the cracked pavement into a sizzling griddle beneath his feet. Strangely, each step felt lighter, as if he was being propelled by something far beyond his own stamina.
His breath came in ragged bursts as he tore down the grimy streets, where the familiar scents of exhaust fumes and fried dough clung to the air like an old, suffocating blanket. Potholes yawned across the asphalt like open mouths, forcing him to zigzag through the throng of stumbling pedestrians and sputtering cars. A vendor pushing a rickety cart piled high with counterfeit electronics cursed loudly as Davo barely missed him, his curses lost in the cacophony of street vendors hawking their wares and distant sirens wailing.
Then came the road. A wide artery of chaos, clogged with sluggish vehicles spewing dark clouds of exhaust, their horns blaring in a discordant symphony. The heat shimmered off the pavement in waves, distorting the traffic into a molten blur. Davo's heart pounded in his chest, and for a split second, hesitation gripped him—just long enough for the rust-covered hood of a battered car to slam into him with a sickening thud.
The world flipped violently. Davo found himself airborne, spinning, before crashing onto the asphalt with a bone-rattling roll. His body skidded across the rough surface, gravel biting into his skin. He expected pain—jolting, white-hot agony—but instead, there was... nothing. No sharp sting, no dull ache. Just the surreal sensation of being weightless, as if the world had somehow spared him.
Blinking up at the sky, he barely had time to gather his bearings before the driver's door burst open. A squat, red-faced man stormed out, his greasy shirt plastered to his chest with sweat, his mouth already spewing a torrent of curses. The shrill honking of horns and distant shouts mingled with the man's rage, yet Davo barely registered them.
His wide eyes locked onto the dent in the car's hood—an ugly, warped indentation where his body had collided. He stared at it in disbelief, then patted himself down, half-expecting to feel broken ribs or torn flesh beneath his threadbare shirt. But there was nothing—no bruise, no cut, just the thumping of his heart hammering against his ribs like a war drum.
No time to think. Snatching up the scattered food from the ground, he sprang to his feet and bolted once more, the shouts of the angry driver fading into the background noise of the city.
"Move, Davo, move!" he muttered under his breath, pushing through the throng of vehicles with renewed caution, weaving past honking motorbikes and skidding around pedestrians. His legs ached, his lungs burned, but he didn't dare stop. "How the hell am I still standing?" The thought gnawed at him, persistent and impossible to ignore. He should have been sprawled on the pavement, broken and bleeding. Instead, he was running, faster than he ever had before. "Maybe the gods are smiling on me today," he thought, though the notion felt ridiculous. He had never been the type to believe in divine favors.
He veered into a narrow alley, the walls pressing in close, the scent of damp brick and rotting garbage filling his nose. Each step took him closer to home, to the ragged edges of the slums where even the gangs hesitated to tread. Relief flooded his chest as he rounded a final corner and the sight of his familiar neighborhood came into view.
But as his feet pounded against the cracked pavement, another thought surfaced, creeping into the edges of his exhausted mind: What the hell is happening to me?