"Honey, why do you always eat like that, sitting all alone on the sidewalk? You're welcome to come in if you want to."
It was raining, and the contents of the boys' tiny ice-cream cup were quickly being melted and deformed under the droplets of water. The child however was unfazed and continued enjoying his meal with a surprising air of dignity, bringing small spoonful after small spoonful of diluted sweetness into his mouth with the puny plastic spoon, visibly savoring each one. The dirt on his clothes was only partially being washed away and his skin was adorned by bruises and scars; the black cloth tightly wrapped around his head protected him somewhat from the foul weather. It didn't take long for the young man to finish up and, as he stood up to leave, he addressed the kind old lady who ran the shop:
"Mighty kind of you miss, but I'm afraid I can't take you up on the offer."
The boy let out a soft, resigned giggle before walking away.
"A rat must know his place."
xx
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From its very foundation, the world had always been organized in hierarchies. At the top stood the strong; those capable of harnessing their power, skills and talent to impose their will onto reality and carve out their stories: the roots of legends. The mighty huntsmen and huntresses, those trained in the great academies, were the ones responsible for maintaining order and therefore also the ones that inevitably perpetuated the status quo. They were hailed as heroes for the simple virtue of being powerful, of being able to slay Grimm, of being lucky enough to have been born ready to turn into vicious, bloodthirsty Lions.
On the opposite end of the spectrum, were the rats: the ones born with no talent, born with no wealth and certainly born with no luck; the ones with little choice but to be subjugated by the strong. Feeble, filthy rodents were destined to crawl around through the cracks of society, cursing their own weakness as they claimed the garbage of others as precious food and shelter. Hence, rats must often live by their own code in order to survive, embracing an existence of bitter acceptance and tainting their heads, hands and stomach with filth as they march onward despite the world around them.
In his short years of life, Roman had come to understand these basic principles.
The young man had only vague memories of his past: there were notions of rotten wood and dirty sheets, of a weeping woman beneath the shadow of a man holding a glass, of unbearable pain suddenly broken by deafening silence. But the boy did not bear such things in mind, or perhaps he just couldn't afford to, as he focused only on the pockets of the people unfortunate enough to walk past him. In this regard, Roman had developed an ability that was hardly commendable: he could very accurately gauge the bounty to be obtained from robbing a given target, as well as the chances of being caught in the act, just from looking at their appearance and mannerisms. However, the child's aptitudes went even beyond that, turning into a sort of passion. At some point, Roman was able to appreciate the style, texture and material of other people's attires, though he had decided to keep his sensitivity for costumes as a complete secret from anyone else.
