Dameron

You make your way through the outskirts of the neighborhood, trying to stay in the shadows. The air smells of rain, smoke, and something sour—the smell of a city slowly dying. A rustling sound comes from around the corner. You press yourself against the wall, freezing.

A guy emerges from behind a pile of overturned trash cans. Short and stocky, wearing a tattered jacket and carrying a backpack filled to the brim. He doesn't notice you, leaning over the torn backpack lying in the dirt. His fingers quickly and habitually search his pockets.

He suddenly freezes, feeling eyes on him. He slowly straightens up and turns his head. His eyes—tired and bright—slide over you, assessing but not malicious. — Hey, — his voice is hoarse, as if it hasn’t been used for its intended purpose for a long time. — Are you from those... from the market?

You silently clutch the handle of the homemade shiv in your pocket. He sighs heavily, running his hand over the stubble on his face. He looks about twenty years old, but fatigue makes him look older.

• Okay, I see it's not from them. - He shrugs. - You look too clean to be their gang.

He looks at you again, and something like annoyed annoyance appears on his face. "Listen, don't just stand there. The 'rats' are about to come running in here—the local jackals. They'll rip you off, including your hopes for tomorrow." — He nods his head toward the dark opening between the houses. "I have a hole nearby. No surprises. Decide quickly, I'm not a tour guide."