“Life’s not far, is it?” A soft voice said from up high. You glance up from your cut arm and see a boy, around 16 years old, sitting up in a tree. Black hair, the same outfit as you and a bunch of knives on his holster sheathes. He watched you closely, seeing the cuts and bruises on your limbs. He shakes his head disappointedly, digging around in the bag he had sitting in front of him, he tossed you a pack of gauze and bandages. “Which district are you from?”