THE STREETS OF LONDON open
the city, as ever, slows down as the sun sets. his mother told him once that it used to be the opposite - that the nights were once full of busy, vibrant life, the kind they only see once or twice a year nowadays. heās not sure how heād take that. the quiet of the night and its sluggish streets are one of zās favourite things about it. he leaves his errands until late in the afternoon, and wanders - as now, a new research book in one of his gloved hands, another tucked in the pocket of his coat, his small bag of groceries jostling inside the magically enlarged messenger bag slung over his shoulder. itās not quite dark yet, but itās on its way. he should, really, be more on edge, out alone, exposed - the order havenāt been scared, recently, and they havenāt been quiet. they could come for him from behind any corner between this street and his apartment, and thereās plenty of walking before he gets there. heās too far in his own head when he rounds the first turn towards home, and the collision shocks him, even more when he realises itās something thin and solid heās hit, and not another body. a damn lamppost.
āfuckinā idiot,ā he mutters to himself, shrugging his shoulder against the bruising pain. his knee is smarting, too, and when he spots someone else standing on the corner, he really hopes itās not bad enough that heāll limp. itās easy enough, though, to slip into a persona of cruelty and aggression upon being seen. he sets his jaw, squares his shoulders, furrows his brow. āthe hell are you looking at?ā
