Caribbean darted through the marketplace, his feet barely touching the ground as he navigated the maze of stalls and street vendors.
His white hair, with just a few black strands peeking through, was unmistakable, drawing the occasional curious glance. His movements were smooth, his body lean but well-formed, capable of far more than he realized. He wasn't particularly large, but he moved with a quiet, latent strength that made dodging the crowd effortless.
He could hear them behind him—voices of the group of students from his school, louder and closer with each passing second. His breath quickened, but not from fear. It was frustration. He didn't know what had set them off this time, maybe a slight look or just their usual routine of trying to assert dominance. Caribbean had learned long ago that he wasn't welcome in their circles. He didn't need to fight them; he just needed to get away.
The market buzzed with activity. People haggled for prices, vendors shouted to attract customers, and the smells of street food filled the air. Caribbean's eyes scanned the area for an escape route. He knew this part of the city like the back of his hand, having walked it countless times.
There—a narrow alley between two shops. Without thinking twice, he sprinted towards it, his heart thudding in his chest as he took a sharp turn into the shadows.The alley was cluttered with trash, old crates, and broken goods, but at the far end, he spotted a large dumpster. Without hesitation, he dived into it, pulling the lid shut just as the sound of footsteps echoed off the walls.
His breath caught in his throat as the group slowed down, the leader's voice barking orders."He couldn't have gotten far," one of them muttered."Check the other side," another replied.Caribbean pressed his back against the cold, metal side of the dumpster, straining to hear. His pulse pounded in his ears, but he kept still, knowing that if they found him here, it wouldn't end well.
He wasn't afraid of a fight; he just didn't see the point in starting one. His body was tough, stronger than he knew, but that didn't mean he wanted to test it out every time these bullies decided they wanted trouble.After a tense few moments, the voices grew distant.
Caribbean waited, just to be sure, before cautiously lifting the lid and peeking out. The coast was clear. With a sigh of relief, he climbed out, dusting off his clothes as best as he could. His hands were trembling slightly, but it wasn't from fear. He hated this—this feeling of always being on the run, always having to hide from people who saw him as nothing more than a target.
Making his way home, he moved through the quieter side streets, avoiding any further confrontations. His mind wandered as he walked, the tension in his muscles slowly easing. He wondered why they targeted him, why it was always him. Sure, he looked different—his pale hair and striking features often drew attention, but was that enough for them to keep picking on him? Or was it because he didn't bother trying to fit in? He wasn't interested in their games or their power struggles.
The small house he shared with his grandmother came into view, tucked away in a quiet neighborhood. He slipped inside quietly, not wanting to wake her if she was resting. His grandmother was the only family he had left, and he'd do anything to keep her from worrying.
In the bathroom, Caribbean stood in front of the mirror, inspecting the minor cuts and bruises he'd picked up from the day. His reflection stared back at him, a mixture of weariness and hidden strength in his eyes. His body healed fast—faster than most people's. Scrapes that should take days to fade were barely visible after a few hours. He didn't know why, but it had always been that way.After cleaning up, he wandered into his room, collapsing onto the bed. The weight of the day pressed down on him, but sleep came quickly.
In his dreams, he wasn't running—he was soaring, free from the constraints of the world around him, a dragon hidden in human skin.
The next morning, Caribbean was halfway out the door when his grandmother's voice stopped him. "Caribbean! You're not leaving without breakfast, are you?"He paused, closing his eyes with a sigh. She always knew when he was trying to sneak out.
Turning around, he stepped into the small kitchen where his grandmother sat, her silver hair pulled back into a neat bun, her sharp eyes watching him with the same care they always did.
"You need to eat before you leave," she said, pointing to the plate she had prepared.
"You look like you're always running on empty."
"I'm fine, Grandma," he said, sitting down and taking a bite anyway.
"Just got a lot on my mind."
"Is it those boys again?" she asked, her tone softening with concern. "You need to stand up for yourself, Caribbean. You can't keep running forever."
Caribbean smiled faintly. She didn't know how complicated things were, how standing up for himself could lead to bigger problems. The school had strict rules against fighting, but that didn't mean the students always followed them. "It's fine. I can handle it."
His grandmother gave him a long, searching look but didn't press further. Instead, she just nodded. "Just be careful. And don't forget, you're stronger than you think."
He finished his meal, thanked her, and headed for the door, grabbing his bag on the way out. Her words echoed in his mind as he walked towards school. Stronger than he thought? Maybe. But no matter how strong he was, there were always things he couldn't outrun.
As he stepped onto the busy street, the familiar sounds of the city greeted him. People moved about, going about their daily routines, unaware of the worlds they couldn't see—worlds filled with magic and power, things hidden just beneath the surface of the ordinary. Caribbean knew that soon, he'd have to face those worlds too. And when that time came, running wouldn't be an option.