Steeling his resolve, he pulled his dark matted hair carelessly down his forehead to cover his hollow eyes. Few saw the boy emerge from his solitary alcove, squashed in between the looming skyscrapers that surround his bustling market. Hands, dirty and scarred from fights over pride and territory, can take what they want in his market. He earned this right. His market. An apple for breakfast. A roll for lunch. A slice of cobbler with dinner. But never meat. That was beyond his territory; the border was as prominent as the scar that wrapped around his torso. A reminder, they told him. He reached under his ragged shirt to his shoulder and traced his reminder from one shoulder to the other. Leaving his fingers to feel the pulse beneath the throbbing pink ridge, he allowed rage consume him. Knowing he would need it later, he simmered down and strode towards the border he must cross. If he lost this fight, he would lose his territory and all that he knew; a win would bring respect and vindication. His muscles tensed in preparation and his awareness spiked with his adrenaline: two behind, one on each side and one in front. The other four could wait, it was the leader he came for. Skipping the tough guy act, he swung. That night, he pushed peach cobbler past cut and swollen lips. He thought it washed the steak down perfectly.
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