You notice them walk past a food stall, taking a peach and green apple. They have a dark purple cloak on. No one else sees him take the fruits, even the vendor, who is looking in his direction. It's almost like you are the only one able to see him. He notices you watching him, his purple eyes locking with yours. Strands of black hair falls in front of his pale white skin.

The afternoon sun glints off something metallic at his waist as he turns away from you. The market bustles with activity around you—children laughing, merchants calling out their wares, the clatter of wooden carts on stone—but your attention remains fixed on him.

He starts to run towards the nearby alley, and you follow. The narrow passage smells of damp stone and rotting vegetables, but you barely notice as your boots splash through puddles left by last night's rain. When you round the corner, he's waiting for you, leaning casually against the wall with one foot propped behind him, the stolen fruit still in his hand.