Footsteps, soft and steady, came closer. The small beggar moved back into the alley, opened a trash can lid, and hid inside, covered by a bad smell.
But the footsteps started to go away. The beggar breathed out, happy to be safe for another day.
"Ha ha! Got you! You can't run from me today!" A girl's sweet voice filled the big street, with the laughter of four or five other kids.
The beggar waited a bit before he came out. He used patience and care to check for danger. After half an hour, hearing the girl and her friends still playing, he crawled out of the trash, sticking to the wall, moving to the alley's end.
On the street, adults with lamps stood around a ten-year-old girl leading the game. She was in a big coat and tall boots, her brown hair moving as she played.
The grown-ups looked happy to do as she said.
It was just a game of hide and seek.
The beggar felt better. He put his knife away and walked out of the alley, leaving the happy rich kids behind, ready to leave…
"Hey! Catch him! Bad guy, surrender to our boss, Miss Walnut!" A boy, a bit older, yelled as he ducked a snowball and ran at the beggar.
The girl grabbed another snowball and went after the boy. She tried to hit him but missed; the snowball hit the wall near the beggar, showering him with cold snowflakes.
The girl, making a new snowball, ran by the beggar. She pulled back, her face showing she didn't like the smell of the alley, and walked around him before she ran after the 'bad guy' again.
The other kids, in nice clothes, ran past the beggar, blocking his way home without intention.
The beggar's face didn't change, and his eyes stayed cold. He was used to this. The rich could do anything, and they wouldn't stop their play for someone as small as him.
For him, life was clear — poor, dirty, just like a rat, living each day just to get food. Every morning, he only thought about where to get food. He didn't have other hopes; those were for the rich, not for him.
The way was closed. The beggar turned to walk another way. His steps were heavy, and he couldn't feel his feet because of the cold.
The snow kept falling, making it hard for him to see. Then he saw a red cross sign…
It was the medicine shop.
He stood in front of the place he had planned to go to.
The little beggar looked at the pharmacy's closed doors. He stood strong in the snowstorm, arms crossed, bent over, his eyes looking wild and cold like a young wolf.
A beggar's duty was to himself alone, even if it meant forsaking kin in the pursuit of survival.
Why should he help a mother and daughter he didn't know? In this world, that kind of thing only ended one way: dying from the cold or getting caught.
This kid wasn't dumb. He planned to go past the pharmacy and take a different way to his place from the crossroads.
Wasn't the storm very strong that day?
As the beggar moved, the wind hit him hard. He couldn't feel his feet, and the wind knocked him down, making him hit the pharmacy's wall hard. He was seriously hurt.
If he stayed here, the cold would have ended his life. Death, the scary end, frightened everyone. He got up against the wall, looking for a warmer spot away from the storm. He saw it—a window with no bars, up high on the pharmacy wall.
Inside, the pharmacy was dark and empty. The boy tapped the window with his knife handle softly. No answer, so he hit harder, breaking the glass, opened the window, and climbed in.
It was still cold inside, but it was better than the snowstorm. Holding his knife, he moved quietly to a dark corner to hide and wait.
One minute… two minutes… three…
Five… ten… fifteen…
After fifteen minutes of quiet, the door to the owner's room didn't open. The beggar got up, brushed off the ice, and went quietly to the shelves.
"I thought you were someone else, but you're just a thief?"
Hearing someone else in the dark was very scary.
Caught, the beggar tried to attack with his knife, but the other person was ready. He stopped the boy's movement and held him down.
"Don't be scared, I won't hurt you."
The beggar's heart hammered against his chest, a frantic drumbeat in the silence of the room. Each breath he took was shallow and quick, fogging in the cold air as he strained his ears, trying to match the voice with a face from his mental catalog of the city's inhabitants.
But no, this voice carried no echo of familiarity, no thread of memory that tied it to the gentle tone of the apothecary. This voice was colder, edged with a hardness that spoke of steel and shadows.
As he lay there, pinned under the weight of the stranger's gaze, the beggar felt the sting of the cold floor seeping through his ragged clothes.
In that silence lurked the peril of the unknown, the sense that this night could unfold into anything—most likely something dire.
The stranger flipped the boy to face him, scrutinizing him with a penetrating gaze, demanding, "State your name, and your purpose here."
The boy stayed quiet, not wanting to talk before he knew what the man wanted.
"Impudent kid," the man snorted, "Actually, it doesn't matter who you are. Get up!" He pulled the boy up and took him to the owner's room door.
He opened the door…
A strong smell of blood came out.
The owner of the pharmacy was dead on the bed, and the man shone a light on him.
Before the boy could think, the man put something in his hand and pushed him into the room, laughing.
"This dead guy had a rival. He was killed for doing well in business. Lucky for me, you're here to be blamed, my little angel. The guards are coming, and this place, Senag, doesn't care much about the law. They might not believe you or check what happened. I wouldn't hope too much."
The door shut, and a loud alarm filled the room.
The boy stood up, looking at the bloody knife in his hand, his skin marked with red blood. He looked at the dead man, who was still staring at the ceiling.
However, the boy wasn't panicking or cursing.
This is how the world worked—the weak were killed, and only the smart and strong set traps.
You shouldn't be mad at someone who tricks you, but at yourself for not being careful. To kill and blame someone else was normal here. If he had been in the other person's place, he'd have done the same.
He had been used to this kind of life.