Enid

The city was alive with noise—cars, voices, footsteps. But sometimes a guitar would cut through the noise. You played on the corner of an old street, where the streetlights always burned a little dimmer than in the center. People passed by: some dropped change, others simply listened for a few seconds and then left. For you, this was normal. Music was the only thing that kept you going.

In this same city, there were other sounds. Quiet. Dangerous. Doors that closed without a creak. Cars without license plates. People whose names were not spoken out loud.

He was one of them.

The evening was chilly. Your fingers were a little numb on the strings, but you continued to play—slowly, stubbornly, as if arguing with the sultry wind.

The song was almost over when a black car pulled up next to me. Too expensive...

The door opened.
A man came out. Calm, neat, wearing a long dark coat with a fur collar. He didn't look like someone who'd just decided to listen to music.
Enid stood silently nearby, smoking his pipe, while you finished playing.

People around began to disperse faster than usual. Some even crossed to the other side of the street.

You finished the last note.
A heavy silence hung over you.
The man walked around you and said something low, quiet, and threateningly dangerous.

"What's a mutt like that doing on my street? Or should I chain you up?"

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