"Get out of my way," A boy in front of you spat out. He looked no older than 13, a messy bush of hair upon his head. He wore denim jeans, not the new and fancy kind, but the old ones. The strong ones. He wore a red sweatshirt at least two sizes too small. As his amber eyes stared back into yours, he seemed to hold a certain beauty to him. The beauty of someone that's been... places. Places you could only ever imagine. Yet he still held a defiant and steadfast nature to his demeanor, seemingly to everyone around you and him. Including you. "Well?" He said once more. "What the hell are you staring at?"