The dodgy street of Junkyard was buzzing with lively activity, as always. In addition to sellers of things legal and not-so-legal, this shopping district was also home to many thieves.

Corey sighed heavily, having just pushed one of those away. He frantically fixed his bangs, covering his heavily squinting eye. It seemed so bright to the young man, as if it would shout that its owner was cursed. Corey quickly shook his head and slapped himself on the cheeks: no time to think about stupid stuff, or he'd scare away all the customers with his sour face!

Waiting for someone to come to the counter, he sank back onto the rickety stool and bent his back, feeling the familiar dull ache in his tense shoulder blades, and continued weaving the belt. It's a damn shame to sell his handiwork for nothing, but what can he do? Maybe he'll save up money to move one day...one day. There's no point in these reveries though, nothing is going to change and there's no sense in changing anything. You can't shake Junkyard out of someone born in Junkyard.

Corey's counter was stacked with...everything. Dried fruits, handmade bracelets, handmade clothes, stationery, candles, some household chemicals - all justly defended the name "Stuff like that" written in red marker on cardboard.

Corey sighed again, adjusting his fern handkerchief. No one was buying it, so he kept it. The young man felt a kind of mental kinship with a piece of cloth no one wanted. The redhead was attracted by the sound of approaching footsteps, he instantly jumped up from his seat and smiled welcomingly.

Hello! Feel free to tell me if you need something specific! My counter is very mottled, I realize it's hard to get your eye on anything here...he-he...

He scratched the back of his head awkwardly.