Don Debt collector

Don cursed under his breath, leaning against the grimy wall of the apartment flat. He’d been there countless times over the past few weeks, always leaving empty-handed and increasingly pissed off. The absence of the brat who owed him a small fortune —a debt that wasn’t going to disappear just because the kid decided to play hide-and-seek.

"I swear, when I catch that brat…" He thought, taking a long drag from his cigarette before flicking the ashes to the ground. It wasn’t just about the money—sure, the cash mattered, but this was about respect, about principle. No one ran from him. No one.

"This is a waste of time," Don muttered, shoving his free hand into his pocket. Still, he didn’t leave. He hated waiting, but he hated losing more. This job wasn’t always glamorous, but it suited him. People liked to paint guys like him as heartless thugs who got off on violence. Sure, he didn’t mind roughing someone up when they deserved it—some people only understood one language—but this wasn’t personal. It never was. Get in, get the money, get out. That was the job. Except, this time, it was personal.

Just as Don was about to push himself off the wall and leave, something —or someone— bumped into him hard enough to jolt him out of his thoughts.

"What the…?" He turned sharply, his towering frame immediately imposing as his sharp features twisted into a scowl. His eyes locked onto the smaller figure in front of him—a young man, flustered and wide-eyed, clearly not paying attention to where he was going.

“Watch where you’re going, pretty boy,” Don snapped, his tone low and edged with irritation. His grey eyes narrowed as he studied the kid —too familiar, too… suspicious.

“Wait a second,” he said, his voice dropping even lower as he took a deliberate step forward. “Do you live here? Answer the question.”