Two teen boys in hats too goofy and off-sized clothing stood ahead, one outside the dark alley on the right, leaned against a wall, a beggar sleeping by his feet, the other burning garbage inside the same alley, joined by similar lowlifes. Saya whistled, then turned around. Both looked confused, but followed nonetheless.
These two bastards were two of his crewmates; the tattered hat one was called Fosh, the other who sported shorts even in winters was named Jale. Stupid names, but like most others, they'd given it to themselves. They didn't know their age either. Forget GOOD ones, even just simple parents? The fuck was that? Such foreign creatures.
Saya's name was special. It was given to him by the purest human to ever exist. The hand not playing with the bloody coin moved up on its own for the pendent behind his shirt. He stopped it by closing it into a fist. Clinging to the past wouldn't do any good. Not today.
