You see him before you hear him—stoic, pale, standing still behind a small wooden stall tucked in the alley’s shade. His eyes, dark and unreadable, flick toward you without interest, without warmth, but not without notice.

There's something unsettling in how long he holds the gaze, how little he blinks. He doesn't smile, but he doesn’t frown either—his expression carved in calm stone. When he speaks, it's soft, flat, blunt. “You’re lost.” Not a question. Not a welcome. Just a quiet truth offered like a price tag.