A lone individual emerged from the alley's darkness, disappearing into the neon-streaked mayhem of the market.
Snow clung to his torn clothes, melting into filth when exposed to the market's heat.
Layers of fabric encased his face, revealing only a set of obsidian eyes.
He walked without pause, darting through the mob like a stray dog who knew every curve of these streets.
The market buzzed, a beast of flickering lights and gruff voices, its breath heavy with the aroma of fried oil and damp metal.
*Bam*
A vendor slammed a metal fist on his table, shouting over the noise, "Prosthetic arms! Half price! Works good—mostly!"
Sparks jumped from one of his faulty arms, but no one flinched.
"Real fresh," said a woman with a stitched-up face as she leaned in close to a passing customer. "No preservatives. There isn't a better product available." She handed over a little, vacuum-sealed package with something still twitching inside after the customer nodded and distributed credits.
The boy passed without a look.
A fight started up ahead. With a serrated knife gleaming beneath blue neon, a cloaked man lunged.
*Swishh*
The other guy barely dodged, knocking over a stall in the process. Bottled chemicals crashed to the ground, bursting into a sizzling mist that stung the eyes.
The boy shifted slightly, just enough to avoid the mess, stepping over a twitching flesh like it was a fallen branch.
Just a few seconds later, a group of men stormed in, their boots crunching against the slush-covered ground. Firearms up, movements synchronised and efficient.
They seized the assailant and the man he failed to kill, exposing their faces.
With no effort and without any hesitation, they took them and vanished in an instant, pulled into the darkness outside the fluorescent glare.
An adjacent seller sneered,"Idiot. Doesn't he know this market's under Marley?"
"Nah, he was aware." Another vendor said while shaking his head, stacking small vials of something that pulsed faintly. He snorted. "You can't hold him responsible. I've heard that his daughter was ra**d and killed by the jerk he just attacked." He told without any ounce of sympathy.
The first vendor clicked his tongue but didn't argue.
Business went on.
Further in, deeper into the heart of the market, the stalls grew stranger, with vendors selling more bizzare items.
The boy continued to walk.
Burning oil, incense, and the acrid sting of chemicals filled the air as it grew warmer.
Here, the ice melted before it could contact the ground.
A group of men crouched over a crate, their voices quiet, and he snuck passed them.
He was gone after just one more stride, one more alley, one more shadow with a sharp object shining in it.
Then he noticed it.
A slender corridor, shimmering eerily green.
Finally, a store, assuming that's what it's called.
Above it, the neon sign was half-dead, with some letters beyond repair and flickering and buzzing. Like the structure was about to collapse, wires were hanging loose and sparking every few seconds.
He pushed the door open.
Inside, The room smelt like spice, hookah smoke, and something metallic.
Strange antiques, including rusting machinery, clockwork bits, and bottles of lightning that flickered in glass, were piled high on shelves. A faint glow flickered from the ceiling, creating shaky shadows on the walls.
At the center of it all, an old woman sat at a low table
Her silver hair was wrapped in a scarf, her face lined like old leather. She took a slow drag from a hookah, the glass base pulsing with neon green mist.
She exhaled, watching the smoke twist in the air before fading. Then her intoxicated yet observant eyes settled on him.
"Again?" she rasped.
The boy nodded, finally lifting his head to reveal a face both rugged and fragile.
His skin was marred with red and blue splotches, fresh bruises blooming along his cheekbone and jaw.
Dark circles sat heavy beneath his weary eyes, their dull glint betraying exhaustion far deeper than a single sleepless night.
He mumbled, "the usual," his voice low as he leaned against the counter.
Without missing a beat, the old woman, with a hooked nose and eyes sharp as broken glass—pushed herself up from behind her cluttered counter.
She started rifling through a stack of grimy medicine bottles and faded vials.
"First off," she said, her tone rough, "For the burns and those nasty blisters," she said, not even looking at him, "silver sulfadiazine cream, aloe gel. Keep the skin from cracking. If it gets bad, slap some petroleum jelly on it." She set the first tube on the counter.
Her fingers skimmed over the next row of vials. "For pain, bruises, cuts, or whatever hell you got yourself into this time—I got ibuprofen, acetaminophen, or if you're feeling fancy, some menthol balm. Quick fix."
She glanced at him then, her voice dipping. "If you're coughin' up blood again, I've got tranexamic acid. Slows the bleeding. And you're looking like shit—worse than usual—so I'm throwing in some iron and B12. Try not to drop dead, yeah?"
The boy stayed silent, watching her pile the meds onto the counter.
She tapped one last bottle. "For infections, broad-spectrum antibiotics—unless you wanna rot from the inside out. And yeah, I got alcohol wipes, iodine, all the fun stuff."
Then, her voice turned casual—too casual. "And if you're really in the gutter, I got a little something to keep you on your feet. Caffeine. Maybe a hit of something stronger if you're desperate."
The old woman laid out the medicines neatly on the counter, her eyes never leaving his.
The boy's eyes flicked from the medicines to her face.
"..."
After a long pause, he said caustically, "Really, hag?"
"....."
For several seconds, the old woman stared at him, her gaze unblinking.
Then, a crooked grin cracked across her lined face. "....My bad," she drawled, "My eyesight has dimmed."
The boy didn't blink. "You tell that to the poor bastards whom you keep in your basement, too?"
As he finished, the grin faded from the old woman's face.
Her amusement flickered out, replaced with something darker.
"Watch it, scum." she threatened viciously.
Unseen to the boy, her wrinkled hand inched below the counter, her fingers curling around something solid.
The boy, either oblivious or simply uncaring, only shrugged. "....My bad. I guess I'm too young for jokes."
"....."
Finally the tension broke as a slow wheezing laugh bubbled out of her mouth. "Usin' my words against me, huh?"
She shook her head, smirking. "Damn shame. You're so cute I almost wanna adopt you."
His response was instant. "If I had an ounce of expression, I'd be gagging right now."
Instead of offense, she let out a bark of laughter. "Shit, kid, you never disappoint."
The boy ignored her. "Price?"
Her eyes gleamed as she replied, "Two thousand credits."
Without any further ado, the boy produced a neat stack of currency and placed it on the counter.
The old woman whistled low, sweeping up the cash. "Either you're getting real good at pickpocketin', or you just scammed a blind man."
She swiftly gathered the medicines into a plastic bag, leaving a specific one, and placed it on the counter.
"Pleasure doin' business, little rat." she said, her tone as playful as it was grim.
He grabbed the bag and turned to leave, but her voice stopped him.
"Hey, boy."
He didn't turn. "What?"
"I know how hard it is to get money," The old woman sighed, her tone shifting just slightly.
"One bad move, you either get a few broken bones or even worse, you end up dead in a gutter."
The boy glanced over his shoulder. "And?"
She leaned back, arms crossed. "I got a job for you. A stable one. Pays well. You're young, got a pretty face, that wild raven hair—all the right assets for a certain… clientele."
"....."
She sighed wistfully. "I'm serious this time."
As a final ditch effort she added, "There's honor among thieves, you know."
The boy stared for a long moment.
"Doesn't interest me."He replied.
Then, he grabbed the meds, turned, and walked off.
As he pushed open the door, he muttered, "Honor my ass, old lyin' bitch."
The door shut behind him, leaving the old woman alone in the neon-lit gloom.
"How did he know?" She pondered while exhaling another drag of smoke, watching it curl in the air.
Then, she smirked.
"Cunning brat."