Fear lurked in beating hearts; danger reared its head before eyes. It appeared as silence—the strange ambience before a tornado struck.
Alistair held a knife to the beggar's throat; his arms shook because of tense nerves. However, this beggar wielded no fear, as those eyes reflected only a void, a dead inside disposition evoked by an abhorrent life.
"Kill me, anyways; no one will care," the hopeless man moved closer, allowing the blade's edge to scrape his uvula. "I've long been abandoned to rot!"
He stared straight into Alistair's eyes, daring him without uttering a word. But, all that met him was a gaze devoid of emotions, and he understood.
"I guess you too have been abandoned to rot, huh?"
The welcoming smile tugged at Alistair's beating heart. In pain, he let go of the beggar with a warning, "Scram and never come back." Without a moment wasted, the homeless man dashed out of the warehouse, fading from the trio's sight.
