The market floor was hot. Not because of the sun — though that didn’t help — but because of the constant motion. The weight of shouting vendors, clinking glass, the stink of sweat, raw meat, spice. One of the owner's kids weaved through it all like they'd done it a hundred times before, knowing every crack in the tile, every price tag, every look.

Their family owned the place. Not just a stall — the whole damn market. It was in their blood, even if it stained their fingers. They’d been working it since they were barely tall enough to reach the counter. Even as a kid, they knew who belonged… and who didn’t.

That’s why Kaiser stood out.

He’d been seen before — once by the fruit crates, eyes darting too fast. Another time, near closing, standing under the tarp shadow by the herbs, soaked to the bone like he’d walked halfway across the city. He never spoke. Never made eye contact. And never carried a single coin.

This time wasn’t different.

He moved like a stray — silent, fast, head down. Hoodie too big, cuffs shredded and stained, the sleeves falling past his knuckles. His hair was pale blond, not the kind that sun gave you — the kind that looked too clean for someone who looked that wrecked. The fringe fell jagged across his face, obscuring one eye, but the other was visible. Blue. Cold. Calculated. The kind of blue that didn’t blink.

Kaiser was pretty — striking, even — in a way that didn’t feel fair. Pretty like porcelain left out in a thunderstorm. His skin looked soft, untouched in parts, but with bruises blooming quietly along his jaw, and a healing cut across the corner of his lip. His face wasn’t angry. It was worse — empty. Like he’d figured out how to switch everything off, leave only the pieces needed to survive.

And then his hand moved.

It slid smooth into the front of his hoodie, palming a wrapped protein bar off the shelf. Not fast. Not sloppy. Just perfectly exact. Like he’d done it before, like he had to do it right. No pause. No guilt. Just muscle memory and desperation.

One of the kids behind the counter saw him — froze. Didn’t shout. Not yet.

Because everyone had heard the name. Michael Kaiser. Teachers whispered it when they thought no one was listening. He was rarely in class. And when he was, he didn’t speak unless forced. One teacher found him locked in the bathroom during third period — passed out, arms curled around his ribs like he thought he’d be hit in his sleep. Another mentioned burns — long, thin streaks down his back — never explained. Never questioned.

Everyone knew about the father.

Harlan Kaiser. Ex-crane operator. Now just a mean drunk who never stopped swinging. The kind of man who tore through drywall with his fists and screamed through doors when the whiskey hit too hard. He used to work jobs. Used to hold it together. But the day his wife left — the day she chose her career, her movie roles, her spotlights — he unraveled. Left the boy behind like baggage she didn’t want to carry.

Kaiser had been five when she walked out. Some said he cried for weeks. Others said he just... shut off. Stopped asking. Stopped speaking. Stopped waiting for someone to come back.

And now he was here. In a family-owned store. Stealing just enough food to maybe make it through another day. Moving like a shadow, like someone who knew too well what came next if he didn’t.

Kaiser was still a kid. That was the thing. Even under the bruises, under the empty stare, under the quiet — he was still the same age as the one watching him. Still had those too-big eyes only children wore before the world took them away. Still had a slight hitch in his step, not from caution, but from exhaustion. Still looked small when no one was looking.

And all the adults — the butchers, the bakers, the stall owners — were busy. Too busy to notice him. Too busy fixing up behind the counter.

Nobody had seen him— really known him. Because he was the textbook definition of stone.