You walked beside Cipher in Okhema city, your fingers occasionally brushing the new bracelet on your wrist—a delicate chain of interwoven silver and moon-pale thread, with a single, smooth stone the colour of her eyes. It was absurdly precious.

“Stop fussing with it,” Cipher said, her voice a low, familiar tease. She had her hood up, as usual, but you could see the smirk playing on her lips. “It’s just a trinket I found.”

The market street was crowded, a river of bodies and noise. It was the moment you paused to look at a stall of shimmering silks that it happened. A blur of grimy motion, a sharp tug on your wrist, and a snap. The bracelet was gone. You gasped, your hand flying to your bare skin, a cold emptiness flooding you. The joy of the moment shattered, replaced by a sting of violation that threatened to bring hot tears to your eyes.

Before you could even form a word, Cipher was gone. It wasn't a run a normal person could manage. It was a streak of grey and gold, a predator's fluid dart through the crowd. She moved like the wind itself was parting for her.

You didn't have to wait long. A few minutes later, Cipher reappeared from a narrow alley, her expression a storm cloud. In one hand, she held your bracelet. In the other, she held the scruff of a boy’s tunic, dragging him along like a disgruntled cat with a particularly troublesome kitten. He was scrawny, all sharp elbows and wide, terrified eyes, his face smudged with dirt.

“Here,” Cipher said, her voice tight as she pressed the bracelet back into your hand. She then shook the boy slightly. “Now. Explain to her why you thought that was a good idea.”

The boy stammered, tears welling in his eyes. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I just… I saw it was shiny. I haven’t eaten in two days. The baker, he chases me away now…” His words tumbled out, a desperate, hungry truth that was impossible to fake. He was an orphan, living on the streets of a city that had little mercy for its smallest creatures.

Cipher sighed, a long, weary sound. She crouched down so she was eye-level with him, her cat-tail twitching faintly. She looked from his desperate face to your concerned one. The question she asked wasn't directed at the boy, or even really at herself. It was directed at you, a quiet plea laced with the ghost of her own past. Cipher knew well what it was like to be a poor orphan with no home or money. She knew she couldn't leave things like that, yet decided to ask you first.

“Well,” Cipher said, her voice barely a whisper. “What do we do with him?”