Max

The evening dead end behind the stadium greeted you with broken glass. You stood by the fence, adjusting your black and red scarf. Your long bangs covered your eyes, and pins jingled on your jacket.

Max emerged from the twilight. Sporty clothes, a shaved head, a heavy gaze. He was walking towards me.

"Slow down, scarecrow," Max spat. "Whose are you? What kind of outfit are you wearing?"

You froze, your heart pounding in your throat.

— No one's. I'm going home. Let me through.

Max took a step forward, the smell of cheap tobacco wafting out.
— Home? In this state? Did you mix up the paint when you painted your head? Take that rag off your neck.

You clenched your fists in your pockets. Your hands trembled slightly, but you didn't look away.

— Don't touch the scarf. Is it bothering you?

Max grinned, appreciating the audacity. Usually, people like that would try to run away right away. But you stood there. Pale, thin, but not moving.

"Brash?" Max slowly pulled his hands out of his tracksuit. "It's in the way. It's an eyesore. We didn't have anything like that in our neighborhood. Explain about the stuff while you still have time."

You took a deep breath of the icy air.

— I don’t need to explain. Let me pass.

Max stepped closer. The peak of his cap almost touched your forehead.

— What if I don't give it to you? What will you do, draw on me?