Chapter 3: The Night’s Icy Breath

Swish… swish…! Swish…!! Swish…!

Footsteps crept ever closer. The little beggar shrank into the alley, lifting the lid of a garbage bin and burrowing into its foul, stinking depths.

Swish…! Swish…!! Swish…! Swish…

Yet, strangely, the footsteps soon receded. Just as the little beggar exhaled in relief, grateful for another chance at survival—

"Haha! Found you! You big bad villain, today you won't escape my justice!"

A girl's delicate voice rang out across the wide street. Following her proclamation, a chorus of laughter from four or five other children filled the air.

The little beggar did not move. He knew well that patience and caution were the best means to determine whether this was a trap. He waited, curled in the filth, listening. Only when the girl's playful shouts continued uninterrupted for nearly thirty minutes did he cautiously emerge, pressing his back to the alley wall and inching toward the entrance.

Out on the lantern-lit street stood nearly a dozen well-dressed adults. At the center of it all, clad in a thick fur coat and high, insulated boots, was a girl of about ten, her chestnut hair gleaming under the glow. She was the heart of the game, her presence commanding the laughter and movements of her peers. Even the adults, with indulgent smiles, humored her every whim.

A game. That was all it was.

The little beggar's tension eased. Slipping his knife back into his ragged tunic, he stepped from the shadows, turning his back to the children of a world that did not belong to him. He was about to leave when—

"Hey! Take this! Villains like you should surrender! Bow before the champion of justice, the great Miss Walnut!"

"Oof! Mercy, my lady, mercy!"

A slightly older boy dodged as the girl hurled a snowball at him, laughing as he ran—straight toward the little beggar. The girl, undeterred, bent down, scooped up another large clump of snow, packed it tightly, and flung it with precise aim.

The boy dodged. The snowball struck the wall beside the beggar with a sharp smack. Flecks of ice burst forth, stinging his cold-numbed face.

Cold.

To the rich, snow was nothing more than a playful diversion. But to those who struggled to survive, it was merciless.

The girl dashed past him, preparing another snowball. Mid-stride, she wrinkled her nose. The stench reached her first. She turned her head—and her cheerful expression twisted into one of instant revulsion.

She stopped.

She stepped back—once, twice, thrice—before skirting around him in a wide arc, as if he were a pile of refuse in her path. Then, without a second glance, she rejoined her game, laughing as she pursued her 'villain.'

With her movement, the others followed. The children, wrapped in warmth and luxury, ran past him, forming a living playground that blocked his path home.

The little beggar's face betrayed no emotion. His eyes, sharp and icy as ever, reflected nothing. There was nothing to think about—nothing to be surprised by. The rich could do as they pleased. Who would stop their games for a nameless street rat like him?

In his short life, he had long come to terms with his existence. Worthless. Filthy. No different from a rat scurrying through the gutters, each day lived only for the sake of seeing the next sunrise. There was no hope—hope was an illusion, a cruel joke the privileged played upon themselves. A full belly was the only reality that mattered.

His path was blocked. He had no choice but to turn back.

His steps were heavy. The cold had gnawed away at his senses until he could no longer feel his own limbs. Were his legs still there? He asked himself time and again, even as he watched the ground shifting beneath his feet.

Snow filled the air, a relentless force snuffing out the fragile flames of life. His vision blurred, his consciousness wavering. Just as the world began slipping away, a crimson signboard flickered at the edges of his sight.

A pharmacy.

He stood before the place that had once been his destination.

—

The little beggar stared at the pharmacy's heavy shutters. The doors were locked. The thick, rolling gate was an impenetrable barrier beyond his reach. He stood in the blizzard, arms wrapped around himself, hunched over like a stray dog hesitating at the threshold of a foreign den.

Lowly creatures should only fend for themselves. Even blood ties could be discarded if survival demanded it—let alone a pair of strangers. Helping them would be foolish. And fools in this world met only two ends: death by nature's cruel hand, or execution at the hands of the city's guards.

He would not be a fool.

Turning away, he prepared to bypass the pharmacy and take the long way back to his meager shelter.

But the storm was relentless.

Just as he took a step, a sudden gust slammed into him. His numbed legs faltered. The wind seized him, tossing him to the ground. He tumbled, rolling through the snow before crashing hard against the pharmacy wall.

He could not move.

If he remained here, he would freeze to death.

Death was terrifying—dark, cold, and absolute. Even the lowest existence still feared the abyss. Clawing at the wall, he forced himself up, his breath ragged. He needed warmth—any warmth. Desperately, he searched.

There—above him. A window. Unbarred.

—

The interior was dark. Silent.

Drawing his knife, he tapped the glass softly. He waited. No movement. No sound.

He struck harder. A small pane near the latch shattered. Reaching through, he unfastened the window and clambered inside.

The room was cold, but nothing compared to the raging storm outside. Crouching low, blade in hand, he slithered between the shelves like a shadow. Only when he reached a concealed corner did he tuck himself away, holding his breath, listening.

One minute… two… three…

Five… ten… fifteen…

Fifteen minutes. Still, no one stirred.

At last, he rose, shaking loose the frost clinging to his rags. He tread carefully toward the shelves, gaze scanning for supplies when—

"Well, well. A thief?"

What was more terrifying than a stranger's voice emerging from the darkness behind you?

He had been caught. Instinct overrode thought—he spun, blade flashing forward. But the man was swift, skilled. A simple twist of his wrist sent the dull knife clattering to the floor. In seconds, the beggar was pinned.

"Hmph. No need to panic—I've no intention of hurting you."

The boy's mind raced. This was not the pharmacist's voice. And the strength in this man's grip did not match the plump shopkeeper's frame. With no means of escape, he forced himself still, waiting for the opportune moment.

Noticing his sudden compliance, the man scoffed and flipped him onto his back.

He was around thirty, with thick, heavy brows that cast shadows over his sharp gaze. He studied the beggar for a moment before exhaling sharply.

"Not talking, huh? Fine. Your name is of no consequence to me."

He grabbed the boy by the scruff, hauling him upright. Without warning, he dragged him toward the door leading to the back room and flung it open—

The stench of blood.

In the dim glow of the man's flashlight, the beggar saw him. The pharmacist. Sprawled across the bed, his lifeless body soaked in crimson.

Murdered.

Before he could react, something was shoved into his hands.

The man chuckled darkly. "The shopkeeper was a business rival. Someone paid me to take care of him. And how fortunate for me—an unsuspecting little angel has arrived to take the blame."

The door slammed shut.

An alarm blared, its piercing wail rattling through the shop.

The beggar looked down. In his hands—a bloodstained knife.

He turned to the corpse, its lifeless eyes wide with eternal horror.

There was no fear. No curses.

Because this—this was simply how the world worked.