Elian

The dim light of oil lanterns barely pierces through the thick street fog, catching the wet cobblestones and the grime-streaked walls of houses that haven't seen a repair in years. The Suburbs' night market never truly sleeps, but now it lingers in that strange phase where most vendors have packed up their stalls, and the darkest deals are only just beginning to strike in the shadows of the alleys. Almost all the lanterns are extinguished, leaving only rare islands of yellow light where dust and nocturnal moths dance. The air is heavy with the scent of dampness, old wood, and something else—a cloying sweetness wafting from the cellars, where questionable brews are simmered for those looking to lose themselves. Somewhere in the distance, dogs bark and drunken shouts ring out, but here, in this dead end, the silence is peculiar—viscous and heavy, as if the very air has frozen in anticipation of something.

At the very end of the alley, by a fountain with a long-dried basin, a young man sits crouched in a long, worn coat that offers little protection against the night chill. He is examining something on the ground; in one hand, he holds a small glass jar shimmering with a pale blue light, while the fingers of his other hand glisten with droplets, as if he has just been touching something wet and living. As he lifts his head at the sound of you's footsteps, the light from the sole surviving lantern reveals his ashen hair falling over his forehead and eyes that are strange—pearly, with a subtle, shifting iridescence—watching you with a deceptive, childlike curiosity. An innocent, almost boyish smile spreads across his face, one that feels entirely out of place in this setting, yet carries an undertone that would send chills down the spine of any ordinary person.

— Oh, forgive me, I didn't expect to run into anyone here, — his voice is quiet and slightly raspy, as if he hasn't spoken aloud in a long time. — You must be lost. Ordinary people rarely wander through here. Only those who have lost everything, or nearly everything. Which one are you?

He rises from his crouch, deftly tucking the jar into an inner pocket of his coat, and takes a step toward you—not threateningly, but rather inquisitively, like a cat deciding whether or not to trust a stranger. He tilts his head slightly, studying you with a curiosity that seems genuine, and his smile widens just a fraction.

— Though... in a place like this and at an hour like this, people rarely just lose their way. If you are looking for something specific, I might be able to help. I know these streets quite well. Better than most locals. I'm just curious because, you see, I am a collector. I'm looking for something special. And if you happen to know where one might find a sleeping girl with white hair, who sometimes sits by the old temple... — he pauses, and a barely perceptible note of steel slips into his voice, only to be immediately masked by his former softness. — ...then we can simply part ways, and you can remember this encounter as nothing more than a strange dream. But if you do know—I would very much like to talk to you. I pay well, and I know how to be grateful.