Zarif stood up from the sidewalk where he and Foggy had been sitting, brushing dust from his worn trousers with one hand. The sky had deepened to rich purple and amber, the sun sinking lower and painting everything in warm evening tones. The movement was deliberate, purposeful—the shift from philosophy to practice, from talking about violence to preparing to commit it.
Foggy rose beside him a moment later, slightly slower, his broader frame moving with that perpetual uncertainty. His skin, that warm brown that caught the fading light, seemed darker in the evening shadows. His tangled brown curls hung past his ears, and his too-large vest—handed down from some relative—hung loose on his soft, pampered frame. His movements always followed Zarif's lead. Shadow following shadow.
They walked toward the marketplace proper, leaving behind the quieter street where they'd been observing the flow of wealthy people entering and exiting the gambling hall with its hand-painted red and gold facade. This was still the western continent's coastal trade district, the sprawling commercial heart where goods from across the shards changed hands. The noise level changed as they moved deeper into the commercial district—the casual buzz of conversation giving way to the full-throated roar of commerce.
The marketplace was thick with bodies. Merchants shouted their prices from wooden stalls that lined both sides of the street—each stall built by individual carpenters over the years, some ornately carved with flourishes, others simple and functional. Their voices competed with each other in a cacophony that never quite resolved into anything coherent. "Fresh fish! Caught this morning!" "Spices from the eastern provinces!" "Best fabric in the city, lowest prices!" The claims were always the same, always exaggerated, always delivered with the desperate energy of people who needed to make sales to eat.
Customers haggled, argued, examined goods with suspicious eyes. Children darted between adult legs, some playing, others begging, others stealing when they thought no one was watching. The evening heat still pressed down on everything, making the air shimmer above the packed dirt streets, making everyone's clothes stick to their skin with sweat despite the approaching sunset.
Zarif's demeanor had changed completely. His lean frame moved differently now—the grey jacket hanging open over his shoulders, his white marble skin catching the amber evening light. Gone was the bitter philosopher sitting on the sidewalk, ranting about how good guys never win. Now he moved with predatory focus, his eyes scanning the crowd with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd done this many times before.
He was hunting.
Foggy stayed close behind, matching his pace, his wimpy face set in what he probably thought was a threatening expression but which mostly just made him look constipated. His hand went to his pocket—that nervous habit, fingers working against the fabric in that repetitive motion.
They walked slowly, deliberately, taking in the crowd. Assessing. Calculating.
There—a group of wealthy merchants, their clothing clean and well-tailored, individual craftsmen's work visible in the precise stitching and unique button arrangements. Fine wool and imported silk caught the evening light. Jewelry glinted at their throats and wrists—each piece custom-made, not mass-produced, bearing the distinctive marks of individual jewelers. They moved with the confidence of people who'd never had to worry about where their next meal was coming from, their laughter loud and careless.
Zarif's eyes locked onto them for a moment. His body tensed slightly, muscles coiling in preparation.
But then he saw the guards.
Three of them, uniformed soldiers walking in loose formation around the merchants. Not close enough to be obvious protection, but near enough to respond if anything happened. They wore the empire's colors—dark blue wool with brass fittings, each button hand-forged—carried swords at their hips in individually crafted leather scabbards, and moved with the casual competence of men who knew how to use them.
Zarif's jaw tightened. He pulled back, letting the group pass without making a move. His shoulders remained tense with frustration.
Good targets but unreachable.
They kept walking.
Beside him, Foggy's stomach let out a loud, prolonged growl—the kind of sound that seemed impossibly loud in the brief gap between merchant shouts. Foggy's hand immediately went to his stomach, his face flushing with embarrassment, his soft belly pressing against the fabric of his shirt.
Zarif didn't acknowledge it. Didn't look at Foggy, didn't slow his pace, didn't say anything. Just kept walking with his eyes forward, scanning the crowd.
Mission over comfort. Always.
They began trailing potential targets.
First, a merchant carrying a leather bag—hand-tooled with decorative patterns pressed into the surface—that looked heavy with coins. But he walked through the most crowded part of the market, surrounded by too many witnesses, too many eyes. Zarif and Foggy followed him for three blocks before giving up.
Then a well-dressed woman browsing fabric at a stall. She had rings on multiple fingers—each one individually crafted by different metalworkers, you could tell by the varying styles—a necklace that caught the fading evening light. But she never stopped moving, never let her guard down, never gave them an opening. Her eyes were always aware, always watching her surroundings.
A traveling man with dust on his boots and a pack on his back—the leather worn from long journeys, the straps darkened with sweat and use. But when Zarif moved closer, he saw the way the man's hand rested casually near a knife at his belt. Not a victim. Someone who'd been on the road long enough to know how to handle himself.
Each target had something wrong. Too public. Too alert. Too protected.
The frustration was building in Zarif's chest—a tight, hot feeling that made his fists clench and unclench as they walked. The sky was growing darker now, deep purple bleeding into the amber, evening settling over the marketplace.
"See that one?" Zarif said quietly, tilting his head toward an older man counting coins at a vegetable stall—produce arranged in handwoven baskets.
Foggy followed his gaze and nodded, his hand still working at his pocket in that nervous rhythm.
"No," Zarif continued, his voice low enough that only Foggy could hear. "Too many people around him. We'd be grabbed before we got five steps."
He nodded toward a young woman walking alone, carrying a basket—woven willow, the traditional style. "That one?"
Foggy started to nod, but Zarif shook his head. "Walking too fast. Knows where she's going. Probably lives nearby, which means she knows people who'd recognize us."
This was the education—teaching Foggy to see what Zarif saw. To understand the patterns.
"You want someone alone," Zarif explained, his eyes still scanning. His white marble skin seemed to glow in the evening light as he turned his head. "Distracted. Carrying visible money—a pouch you can see, not hidden. And no guards. No soldiers nearby. No one who looks like they're paying attention."
Foggy nodded eagerly, trying to learn, his expression serious despite his naturally wimpy features—the soft cheeks, the perpetually worried eyes.
This was routine for Zarif. He'd done this dance dozens of times. Knew how to read a crowd, how to spot weakness, how to identify the moment when someone became vulnerable.
And then he saw her.
A woman in a veil, standing behind a small stall. Her own sweet store—modest setup with clay jars arranged on the wooden counter, each jar individually thrown by hand, slightly different in shape and glaze. Colorful candies visible through the openings—hand-pulled sugar work in reds and yellows and greens. She was alone—no customers at the moment, no one standing close enough to be with her. The nearest merchants were far down the street, their stalls distant enough that they wouldn't see what happened here.
The veil covered her face completely except for her eyes, the fabric a simple brown—hand-woven, practical rather than decorative—that suggested modesty rather than wealth. She wore loose clothing beneath, only her hands visible—the kind of modest dress that covered everything.
But at her hip, visible even from this distance, was a small leather pouch. Hand-stitched, the leather worked smooth.
Zarif's eyes locked onto it. His entire posture shifted—from searching to hunting, from assessment to action.
Perfect target. Isolated. Distracted by arranging her merchandise. No witnesses nearby.
He glanced at Foggy and gave a subtle tilt of his head. Foggy understood immediately—they'd done this enough times that words weren't necessary. His hand stopped working at his pocket, going still with sudden purpose. Foggy began moving to position himself, circling around to approach from behind while Zarif would provide the distraction from the front.
Practiced coordination. Wolves circling prey.
Zarif walked toward her directly, his stride confident, unhesitating. His grey jacket swung with his movement, his lean frame cutting through the thinning evening crowd. This was the moment. This was what all the philosophy and bitterness came down to—taking what he needed because the world had taken from him first.
He pulled his knife from his belt as he approached. The crude blade, probably stolen months ago, felt familiar in his palm.
The woman was looking at her arrangements, her attention seemingly focused on the clay jars and their contents.
Zarif slammed the knife down onto the merchant's wooden table—the wood old and worn, marked with years of similar impacts.
The blade pierced deep into the wood with a sharp crack that cut through the marketplace noise like lightning through clouds. The merchant at the neighboring stall jumped back with a startled cry. Nearby customers froze mid-transaction, their eyes snapping toward the source of the sudden violence.
Zarif leaned forward, putting his weight behind his presence, making himself bigger, more threatening. His white marble skin seemed to catch what remained of the evening light, making him look almost spectral. His signature move. The thing that always worked.
"Give me the money!" he shouted, his voice loud and aggressive, pointing at the veiled woman.
This was the moment when they always broke. When fear would flood into their eyes and they'd scramble to hand over the pouch, to make him go away, to survive the encounter with minimal damage.
But she didn't flinch.
Didn't scream.
Didn't reach protectively for her pouch.
She just… stared at him.
Around them, the normal pattern was playing out—other people backing away, the merchant cowering, customers looking around for soldiers or someone to help. Everyone reacting with appropriate fear to the sudden violence.
Except her.
She stood completely still, her eyes visible through the gap in the veil—brown eyes, large and expressive—locked onto his face with an intensity that made something cold crawl up Zarif's spine.
This never happens.
People always showed fear. That was the foundation of his entire method. You created fear, and fear made people comply. Fear made them give you what you wanted so you'd go away.
But her eyes—
They weren't afraid.
They were… relieved?
And impossibly, unbearably sad.
Zarif felt his confidence waver. His eyebrows furrowed, his aggressive posture becoming uncertain. The moment was slipping away from him in a way he didn't understand and couldn't control.
Even through the veil—that simple brown hand-woven fabric—he could feel the weight of her gaze. There was something familiar in it—something he couldn't place, couldn't identify, but which made his shoulders tense and his breath catch.
Why does she feel familiar?
Behind her, barely visible in his peripheral vision, Foggy was moving into position. His soft frame moved with surprising quiet, his hand reaching toward the pouch at her hip, taking advantage of the distraction exactly as they'd planned.
But Zarif barely registered it. His entire focus was on her eyes. On the way she was looking at him—not as a threat, not as a criminal, but as something else entirely.
She was seeing him. Past the knife, past the aggressive posture, past the threat. Seeing through all of it to the broken thing underneath.
And somehow, impossibly, she understood. There was empathy in her gaze. Pity. Understanding. The look of someone recognizing pain because they'd felt it themselves.
Zarif's jaw clenched. His fist tightened around nothing—the knife was still embedded in the table, the worn wooden handle quivering slightly.
"Did you hear me?!" he shouted, louder now, compensating for her lack of fear with more volume. His voice cracked slightly on the last word, rage and confusion bleeding together.
She didn't respond. Didn't move. Just kept staring at him with those eyes that were breaking every rule, shattering every pattern he understood about how this was supposed to work.
And then her hands moved.
Slowly—so slowly it seemed deliberate, ceremonial—they rose to the veil covering her face. Her fingers gripped the fabric—that simple brown hand-woven cloth—trembling slightly. Her hands were small, delicate, the skin smooth.
Zarif watched, his confusion intensifying. Why would a victim do this? Why would she reveal herself to someone threatening her?
She pulled the veil down.
The fabric slid away from her face inch by inch. First her chin emerged, then her lips, then her nose, and finally—
Her eyes.
Brown eyes. The same eyes he'd been staring at through the veil, but now visible in full. Unmistakable.
The face was older than he remembered. Worn by years he hadn't witnessed, marked by time and grief. But the features were the same. The shape of her face, the exact configuration of nose and mouth and eyes that he'd once known as well as his own.
It was Hayat.
Zarif's entire body locked up. Every muscle went rigid simultaneously—shoulders, jaw, hands, legs. His breath stopped or caught in his throat, he couldn't tell which. His white marble skin seemed to go even paler in the deepening evening light.
The marketplace noise continued around them. People shouting, haggling, living. But in the space between Zarif and Hayat, there was only silence.
"Zarif," she whispered.
Her voice cracked on his name, and the sound of it—the exact timbre and tone that he'd heard every day for eight years and then never again for six—hit him like a physical blow.
He knew that voice. His body knew it before his mind could process it, knew it in the way you know the feel of your own skin.
The name hung in the air between them, heavy with six years of absence, of abandonment, of grief that had nowhere to go.
Hayat's hands were shaking now—visibly trembling as they reached into her clothing and pulled out a small wooden box. The edges were worn smooth from being carried everywhere, from being held too many times. The wood itself was simple—probably cedar, hand-carved with basic tools, the kind of work a young boy might do. It was obviously old, obviously treasured beyond its physical value.
She fumbled with it, her hands shaking so badly that she almost dropped it. There was frantic energy in her movements—desperation, urgency. She needed to show him something before he ran, before he disappeared again.
The box opened, and inside Zarif could see pieces of fabric—colors he recognized even from this distance, even in the fading evening light. Cut-outs from the clothes he'd bought her. Hand-stitched garments he'd saved for months to purchase, each one selected carefully from individual craftsmen. The ones that had cost him every bit of pocket money he'd saved for months. The gift he'd left outside her door one morning before dawn because he hadn't known how to say with words what he wanted to express.
She pulled something else from the box. Small, rectangular. A piece of hand-cut wood, its edges rough and uneven because he'd been thirteen and his carpentry skills had still been developing. The surface had been sanded smooth but not perfectly—you could still see the marks where his knife had slipped, where his inexperienced hands had cut too deep.
The card.
Yellowed now. Creased from being held, from being folded and unfolded, from being carried as a talisman against forgetting. But the ink was still visible—faded but readable, applied with one of those hand-dipped pens that required careful pressure.
From Zarif.
His handwriting from years ago. Younger, but unmistakably his.
She held it toward him with both hands, the gesture almost religious. Offering it like something sacred, something that proved they had existed together, that the past was real and not just a dream or nightmare.
"You remember, don't you?" she said urgently, desperately. Her eyes—those brown eyes visible now without the veil—were locked on his face, searching for recognition, for acknowledgment, for anything that would confirm she hadn't spent six years mourning a ghost.
Something broke inside Zarif's chest—or maybe it had been broken for six years and was only now making its presence known. A sound that wasn't quite a sound, a pain that wasn't quite physical.
His hand moved.
He smacked her hand away.
Hard.
The violence was sudden, sharp, breaking the moment like glass shattering. His palm connected with the back of her hand and knocked it aside, sending the card and box flying.
The box hit the dirt and tumbled, the lid separating, the hand-carved cedar box splitting open. The contents spilled. Fabric unfolded in the dust—those carefully preserved pieces, of cloth in colors that had once been bright. The card landed face-up, From Zarif clearly visible despite the dirt, the yellowed wood stark against the packed earth.
Hayat made a sound—a sharp intake of breath that was more emotional pain than physical shock.
Zarif turned and ran.
His body moved before his mind could catch up, pure flight response overwhelming everything else. His grey jacket flew behind him as he moved, his lean frame cutting through the crowd. He shoved through the crowd, knocking into people—merchants in their work aprons, customers carrying hand-woven baskets—not caring, not apologizing. His breath came in ragged gasps that had nothing to do with physical exertion.
Behind him, somewhere in the chaos, Foggy was already running. The money pouch was in his hand—the hand-stitched leather pouch—the theft had been successful during the distraction, just as planned. He didn't understand what had just happened, didn't know why Zarif was running instead of standing his ground, but his instincts told him to follow. His soft frame moved with surprising speed, his too-large vest flapping.
Zarif's knife was still embedded in the merchant's table—the crude blade sunk deep into worn wood. He'd left it there. First time ever. Always before he'd yanked it free and taken it with him.
But he couldn't think about that. Couldn't think about anything except the need to be somewhere else, anywhere else, far away from those eyes and that voice and that card with his handwriting on it.
Foggy caught up to him in a narrow alley between two buildings—the walls close, built of hand-laid brick, narrow enough that the evening shadows made it almost dark. Zarif heard the footsteps and whipped around, his eyes wild, something broken visible in them that Foggy had never seen before. His white marble skin seemed ghostly in the dim alley.
"Get lost!" Zarif snarled. He turned around and continued walking away.
The words came out raw, close to breaking. Not his usual confident threat. Something desperate and damaged underneath.
This was wrong. Zarif never told Foggy to leave. Never sent him away. They were partners. They stayed together.
Foggy stopped, his smile fading from his face. His soft, wimpy features showed confusion and hurt. He stood there for a moment, uncertain, confused, his hand going to his pocket in that nervous gesture. But then—because he always followed Zarif, because he didn't know what else to do—he started walking again. Slower now. Maintaining more distance. But following.
Zarif heard the footsteps resume behind him and turned sharply.
Then he started hitting Foggy.
The punches were slow. Weak. They had no real force behind them, like Zarif was moving underwater or through thick mud. His arms seemed heavy, his swings directionless. His lean, muscular frame—the body that could kill wild animals, that was like touching perfectly smooth steel—moved with none of its usual power. They barely landed, and when they did, they didn't hurt.
These weren't his usual mocking strikes—the sharp jabs to the chest or arm that he used to assert dominance or take out frustration. These were something else entirely. Something wrong.
Foggy didn't fight back. Didn't run away. Just stood there and took it, his soft frame absorbing the weak blows, his face showing hurt that had nothing to do with the weak punches and everything to do with seeing his friend falling apart.
Then Foggy held out the stolen money pouch.
He extended it in his open palm—the hand-stitched leather pouch, simple work but well-made—offering it like an explanation. Isn't this what we wanted? Isn't this why we were there?
His expression was hopeful, almost pleading. The pouch was small, leather, containing Hayat's money—probably not much, but something. A successful theft.
"Get lost," Zarif said again, his voice hoarse and rough. "Or I'll kill you."
The threat was empty. They both knew it. Zarif's eyes wouldn't even look at the money, wouldn't look at Foggy's face.
He didn't take the money. Didn't even acknowledge it. His hands stayed at his sides.
The money meant nothing. Whatever had just happened had made everything meaningless.
Zarif turned to leave again, his movements mechanical, his posture hunched with shoulders drawn in and head down. His grey jacket hung loose, the fabric catching what little light remained in the alley.
Behind him, the footsteps resumed. Quiet. Persistent.
Foggy was still following.
Zarif's shoulders tensed. His fists clenched. He spun around, his fist pulled back for a real punch this time—not the weak, underwater swings from before, but actual violence, real anger that needed somewhere to go.
His face was twisted with rage that had nowhere else to be directed except at the one person still standing near him.
Foggy thrust out his other hand defensively.
He was holding a small cloth sack, tied with string—simple fabric, hand-woven.
Zarif froze, his fist still raised, his body locked mid-punch.
His eyes fixed on the sack. The fabric was familiar—the same type Hayat used for… for…
Sweets.
The sack contained sweets. Hand-pulled sugar work, the kind she'd been selling from those clay jars. Also stolen from Hayat during the chaos. Foggy must have grabbed them from her stall or her basket, must have seen an opportunity and taken it.
The moment stretched. Time became strange, elastic. The evening shadows deepened in the alley.
Then Zarif snatched the sack from Foggy's hand without a word.
The grab was quick, rough, completely lacking gentleness. His grip was too tight, his knuckles going white around the fabric as if he was trying to strangle it.
He didn't thank Foggy. Didn't speak. Didn't acknowledge the gesture beyond taking what was offered.
Foggy saw the acceptance and started to relax—started to think maybe this meant things were okay, that he'd done the right thing.
But then he saw Zarif's face.
Blank. Shut down. Empty in a way that was more dangerous than anger, more frightening than rage. His white marble skin looked almost translucent in the dim light.
Foggy's realization came quickly: This isn't permission. This is a warning.
He turned and ran.
Actually ran, for the first time voluntarily leaving Zarif's side. His soft frame moved with surprising speed, his too-large vest flapping, his hand going to his pocket in that nervous gesture even as he fled. He glanced back once—a quick look over his shoulder to see if Zarif would call him back or follow or do something.
But Zarif just stood there, motionless.
Foggy disappeared into the marketplace crowd, swallowed by the press of bodies—merchants packing up their stalls, customers heading home, the evening crowd thinning.
Zarif stood in the middle of the street.
People flowed around him like water around a stone, adjusting their paths automatically to avoid collision. The marketplace noise continued—merchants shouting last calls, customers haggling for end-of-day prices, children laughing and crying. Life going on around him while he stood frozen.
He was still clutching the sack of sweets in his fist. The hand-woven fabric crumpled in his grip.
His legs gave out.
It wasn't a choice. His knees simply buckled, unable to support his weight anymore. His lean, muscular frame—powerful enough to kill predators—collapsed. He dropped hard onto the edge of the sidewalk, hitting with a jarring thud that should have hurt but didn't register through the numbness.
He sat there with his head hanging low, staring at nothing. His grey jacket hung loose around him, his white marble skin catching the last traces of evening light.
His posture was completely slumped, spine curved, shoulders rolled forward. The sack of sweets rested loosely in his lap now, his grip having relaxed when he fell.
His eyes were unfocused, looking at the ground but not seeing it. Not seeing anything.
People passed by.
Some glanced at him—curiosity, pity, discomfort crossing their faces before they looked away and continued walking. Most didn't even notice, just stepped around him automatically the way they'd step around any other obstacle in the street.
He'd become part of the landscape. Another broken person sitting on the sidewalk. The city was full of them.
The sky darkened. The evening purple deepened toward indigo, the amber fading to grey. The marketplace began to thin as merchants finished packing up their stalls—folding hand-woven awnings, loading hand-crafted goods into carts pulled by horses—as customers went home to prepare dinner.
Zarif didn't move.
Didn't adjust his position. Didn't shift his weight or stretch or look up or do anything that would suggest he was aware of time passing.
He just sat there.
For a very long time.
An hour. Maybe more. Time had become meaningless, elastic, impossible to track.
The shadows grew longer. The air began to cool. The sky continued its transition—evening giving way to night, the first stars becoming visible, the indigo deepening toward black. Night sounds replaced evening sounds—different rhythms, different calls, the changing pulse of the city.
And still Zarif sat, frozen in that moment, unable to move forward, unable to go back, caught in the space between what he'd become and what he'd left behind.
Head hanging low.
Staring at nothing.
Holding a sack of stolen sweets in his lap.