In the heart of a city drowning in chaos, its narrow alleys stretched like an endless maze, where makeshift houses piled on top of each other as if they could collapse at any moment. The air was thick with the stench of dampness and smoke, garbage heaped in the corners attracting more cats and crows than humans. Shouts, curses, and quarrels echoed everywhere, as if life here knew nothing but cruelty.
Amid this scene, a young man walked with heavy steps. His filthy black hair hung over his shoulders, dark circles under his eyes revealing countless sleepless nights. His torn shirt barely covered his thin frame, and his yellowed, crooked teeth showed whenever he tried to smile. His appearance was anything but pleasant, yet he seemed like an honest reflection of the place he came from.
His wary eyes scanned the streets, searching for opportunity among the wreckage scattered in every corner. His steps slowed when he caught sight of a house that looked nothing like the others. Its walls were neat, its windows clean, and even its tiny garden was free of trash. It stood there like a mistake, a misplaced gem among the ruins.
A crooked grin tugged at his lips, followed by a soft laugh as he rubbed his hands together like someone who had stumbled upon treasure. In his heart, the decision was already made:
"This house… will be my prey today."
He began his attempt to break in—if it could be called that. His loud footsteps and clumsy movements were closer to an open declaration than stealth. Yet he felt no worry. In this city, chaos was routine; screams and brawls echoing from the neighboring alleys made his crime blend into the daily noise.
His grin widened with sly confidence when he reached the window. With his dirty hand, he wiped away a patch of dust to peer inside. He saw no one. But what he did see made greed sparkle in his eyes—an elegant sofa, polished curtains, and ornaments that gleamed under the morning light.
He whispered to himself, lips curling in delight:
"Jackpot."
From his ragged bag, he pulled out an empty wine bottle. He waved it for a second with a smirk before smashing it against the glass.
The sharp crack split the silence, shards scattering across the floor like ice. He didn't care about the noise—he even chuckled as he shoved his arm through the broken frame, clearing a path inside as though it required no effort at all.
He slipped inside like a starving beast breaking into a food store. For a moment, he stood frozen, wide-eyed at the sight. His trembling hands reached out to touch the expensive furniture, the spotless carpet that almost glimmered, and the perfumed air so foreign to his lungs.
He stopped at a small table near the wall, topped with a shining mirror reflecting his weary face. Around it sat several valuables: a tiny music box, a decorated pocket mirror, and a crystal vase. His grin stretched with ecstasy, as if fate itself had prepared him a treasure chest.
From his bag, he pulled a worn black trash sack. His hand shook as he stuffed the items inside, one after another, with frantic speed, as though the house might vanish if he took too long. The clatter of glass and metal filling the bag echoed across the room.
He had just shoved the last item in when his body froze. Slow, steady footsteps approached from the hallway. Each tap grew closer, louder, and sweat rolled cold down his temple. He didn't think—he dropped to the floor, crawling under the sofa like a frightened child, clutching the bag tight.
Moments later, the door creaked open, its hinges groaning as though the room itself protested the intruder. The thief stiffened under the couch, unblinking, watching as a shadow slid across the floor. Then its owner appeared.
A teenage boy stepped in with calm, steady strides. His features were striking—messy crimson hair fell naturally across his forehead, yet somehow looked refined. His gray eyes gleamed under the light, sharp and beautiful enough to unsettle the thief. Pale skin gave him a mysterious presence. He wore a short-sleeved white shirt, red trousers, and a tilted white cap perched atop his head.
The boy slipped a hand into his inner pocket and pulled out a pack of white cigarettes, faintly branded with a single word: "Valorite." With a flick, one slid into his fingers. He placed it between his lips without care.
Raising his left hand, he snapped his fingers—and a small flame bloomed as if it had sprung from within him, not from any match. Calmly, he lit the cigarette, inhaled deeply until its tip glowed red, then exhaled a lazy cloud of smoke that dissolved into the air.
He walked toward the sofa, his eyes catching something out of place: a faint smudge of dirt on the floor. He crouched, brushed his fingers across it, then slowly lifted his gaze toward the window—its shattered glass impossible to miss.
His eyes moved again, drifting to the table where items were missing. A faint smile curved his lips before a short, dry laugh escaped him. It lasted no more than a heartbeat, yet the sound sent a shiver crawling across the room.
The thief's body trembled as that laugh reached his ears. He clamped a hand over his mouth to stifle the sound of his rattling breath. His heart pounded like a drum trapped in a cage.
The boy stood in silence for a moment, then finally spoke in a low, cold tone, as though addressing the empty air:
"You know… the one thing that truly angers me… is when strangers touch my things."
The boy suddenly dropped down with ease, bringing his face level with the floor. His gray eyes appeared beneath the edge of the couch, staring straight into the thief's face. It wasn't just a glance—it was a silent stab that pierced into his core. Those eyes were steady, calm, and deadly, as if they weren't looking at a human body at all, but at something worthless, undeserving of existence.
The thief's body locked up, his throat swallowed back a scream, but terror burst out of him anyway. A cracked shriek tore from his mouth, echoing through the room as he scrambled backward like a creature trying to escape from something that didn't belong to this world.
The boy remained crouched there, unblinking, watching him with a killing coldness, smoke rising from his cigarette. The thief panicked, tossing the bag aside as he crawled toward the broken window. His gasps chased the pounding of his heart, as though survival was only a few seconds away. His trembling hand reached out to escape—
But then the boy raised his head swiftly, his left hand stretching out beside the thief's body without touching him. A long red spark shot from his fingers, crawling outside through the shattered glass, before exploding in the air. The blaze reflected off the shards, its glow lighting the boy's face.