The sun had barely risen over the rooftops, but the street already hummed with tension. Krisan crouched behind a stack of crates, eyes sharp, mind sharper. Today, the world was showing its teeth again.
He saw the man before his father even noticed. Broad shoulders under a dark, tailored coat. A top hat tilted slightly, casting shadows across a face as sharp and smooth as obsidian. His eyes—cold, calculating, unnervingly bright—surveyed the crowd like a predator marking prey.
The air around him seemed to pulse subtly, carrying the faint scent of expensive cologne and danger. Krisan noticed the slight curl of his lip, the almost imperceptible tapping of his polished boots on the cobblestones. Every motion was deliberate, every gesture measured. This man didn't just walk—he commanded attention without trying.
"Arjan Veer," the man called, voice calm and velvet-smooth, "you still owe me."
Arjan's jaw tightened. He didn't flinch. He never had. "I told you, every coin will be returned. Just not today."
The man smiled slowly, the kind of smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Do you understand what happens when today becomes tomorrow and tomorrow becomes never?"
Krisan's mind raced. The man's hands, long and precise, hovered near his coat pocket. The faint glint of a ring caught the morning light. There was danger in every detail—this wasn't a man who collected debts; this was a man who took life lessons and sold them back in pain.
He leaned closer to Arjan, voice dropping to a whisper, as though sharing a secret with the street itself. "I can be patient… but patience has its price." He straightened abruptly, and the faint jingle of chains from his belt echoed like a warning. "Let's make it interesting, shall we?"
A small crowd had gathered, whispers rising like smoke. Arjan Veer squared his shoulders, but his eyes betrayed exhaustion. Krisan's fists clenched. This encounter would be burned into memory. Every move. Every word. Every shadow.
The man's gaze swept over Krisan, noticing him for the first time. His eyes lingered for just a fraction too long. "And who do we have here? A little Veer? Eyes like a hawk, I'll give you that."
Krisan's blood simmered. The words weren't meant to intimidate a child—they were a warning, a subtle test. I will remember this. Every shadow this man casts. One day, I will control the ones who control others.
Dhran Malvek—he had learned the name from whispered rumors among the merchants—smiled again, a grin too wide for comfort. The motion of his fingers suggested he could snap his hand at any moment and undo life as easily as a candle flame.
Then, as suddenly as he arrived, he departed. His coat flared like smoke, top hat catching the light one last time. The crowd parted instinctively. He left behind the scent of cologne, danger, and a lingering chill in the air.
Krisan exhaled slowly. The encounter burned itself into him, a lesson he would never forget.
That night, lying awake beside his mother, the memory of the man's cold smile, the glint of his chains, and the predatory gleam in his eyes whispered in Krisan's mind.
"I will never be powerless. Never."
And the word came again, softer this time, echoing through the dark like a promise:
"Prepare."