Slowly. Step by step, Eli walks forward. His shoes crunch underneath the loose rubble and stray cans, notifying the nearby strangers of his arrival. The destination is a nearby alley, a place that opens up into the ruins of a demolished building, a flat piece of land that has been renovated into a large campsite. The surrounding buildings, despite being in the inner city, have been seemingly abandoned, with the windows and doors boarded up. Large chunks of stone have been pushed against the doors to prevent any sudden ambush. The campsite seems to be a packed space, full of people with menacing eyes and sharp temperaments. The area smells of rot and mold, the stink of urine and filth pervading the space like a perfume, clogging the nose with its suffocating stench. The people themselves take shelter underneath small huts made of stacked chunks of the collapsed ruins. Groups huddle around rusted barrels, hands and faces inches away from the fires with the stench of burning trash wafting out from within.

Not many spare Eli a glance. Seeing his calm, confident steps, most assume him to be a regular, or at least someone important with some business to attend to. Therefore, the majority don’t spare him further thought, immediately going back to warming themselves or eating the half moldy can of beans they were lucky enough to dig out of some obscure dumpster. The few that continue to watch him do so warily, their eyes glinting with pain and hunger, eyeing his rather clean clothes and well-worn boots. These individuals live on the outer ring of the campsite, spread out between each other, too afraid to get close to the others. Their fingers rub against the small blades they have concealed within their sleeves as they spend every waking moment waiting for the suitable target to ambush.

Despite the rather hungry eyes Eli has directed towards him, he doesn’t flinch in the face of danger. Instead, he walks through the sea of maroon and scarlet, taking easy steps to bypass the strangers giving him scathing, tired stares. His stride is leisurely, as if he’s walking through a park. His arms sway in time with his steps, as if he’s on a stroll. In this state of absolute calmness, fear is nullified completely, along with all other emotions. All Eli feels is the urge to finish his task, to achieve his goal to his fullest extent. With an empty mind, he walks to the center of the camp, where an unimpressive brick building is connected to a series of tarps, which all have piles of goods underneath. Canned goods, plastic containers, torn sleeping rolls, bottled drinking water. Consumables just about every man in this small camp would strangle someone to death for were sitting untouched in the center of the camp. As he observes such a situation, Eli also notices the two posted guards, their fingers resting with a paranoid urgency on the triggers of their handguns.

The guards aren’t anything special. They dress the same way as the surrounding homeless, their outfits are just as torn, their cheeks just as hollow, their eyes possessing the same amount of madness. The strings that they’re composed of are the same color, the dark sign of age, explaining their deeply embedded wrinkles and lines. They too eye Eli with the wariness of a stray dog, only their actions go a step beyond their nearby fellows as they clumsily raise their weapons with a frantic insistence, their thin fingers trembling as they dance across the trigger.

“S-Stop! Whaddya want kid?!”

The leftmost guard is the first to speak, his eyes sizing up Eli in clear agitation. Eli stops before the man without an ounce of fear on his face. His eyes are hollow bulbs, a chilling reflection of a winter’s night, the unending blackness and terrible cold, where the slightest lack of heat robs one of their life. His voice, spoken in a low and easy tone, is almost robotic, straying here and there, as if he’s in the process of carefully picking his words, while simultaneously taking his time with the process.

“What do I want? Hmm… Roy, I’d like to meet him. He has something I need, I can provide the means to give him what he desires. A fair trade.”

The two men, not much taller than Eli himself, give each other a strange look, the confusion clear on their faces. The other guard, his arms trembling under the weight of the handgun, replies to the boy, his voice aged and weary, his every word spoken in a half sigh as if he’s forcing himself to talk, making an effort to speak his mind.

“Roy don’t want no kids buggin’ him, brat! Go back to yo’ mama, she should be worried!”

“Yeah! Roy don’t want anythin’ from you!”

Eli curls his lips, an unnatural expression that would have been dripping with hostility if not for his otherwise emotionless expression. He slightly points to the interior of the tent, where a bright red shadow can be seen through the flailing array of strings.

“No. He wishes to speak to me. He’s curious as to whether I can provide him what he wants, which I can.”

“Gods, ain’t you a stubborn brat?!”

The first guard, Ken, seems to forget he’s the one in power as he scrunches his face at Eli’s words. It completely slips from his mind that he’s the one in possession of a weapon, and therefore, doesn’t need to listen to any of Eli’s requests. Instead, he hesitates, slightly convinced by the young boy’s self assured words and unwavering expression. After a few moments, he decides to trust his instinct and check with his boss, after all, a mistake means a lack of rations, also known as execution. Ken turns around, looking away from the unarmed child at the very last moment. He then immediately approaches the tent flap, which in reality is a tarp wedged underneath one of the blocks making up the wall. In the process he nearly bumps into the gentleman inside, who’s watching the events through a tear in the tarp.

“U-Uhh, Roy, the, uh, kid wants to speak with ya. Should we let ‘em in?”

Roy waits a long moment, as though contemplating the seriousness of the situation. With a sudden snort, he responds to the man, walking away from the entryway and moving over to his bed while speaking.

“... Sure. He’s just a kid, there’s nothin’ to worry about as long as you’re by the door. I can handle myself long enough for you to respond.”

“Right, then I’ll let ‘em in…”

Without saying another word, Ken leaves the building, his fear of the man inside clear and primal. After all, though he had requested the two guards to stand outside his door to protect him, it was originally him that singlehandedly acquired the weapons they use. A man that can personally kill two Enforcers is a man to be feared, no, worshiped.

“Alright kid, boss wants to see ya!”

Without responding, Eli steps past the two men, the hundreds of eyes behind him burning a hole into his back, their gazes rippling with confusion and curiosity. Inside, the building is rather plain. The space in its entirety is bigger than his old bedroom, but significantly smaller than his room at Audrey’s house. The bed is nothing more than a large cardboard box with patches of mildew and rags being used as blankets. The stench of sweat and sex is obvious, the implications clear as he’s already seen such events happen, just as he already knew the interior layout of the cramped space without having needed to see inside.

Lounging in his “bed” is the man from the memories, a young man with a look of ambition in his eyes. His face has a relaxed smile plastered onto it, the look on his face saying he’s simply entertaining this child out of the goodness of his heart, though Eli knows full well that the man is both wary and curious as to what he has to say. Other than Roy, Eli is more concerned with the bundle of silver in the corner of the room, a long piece of wood and metal, hollow on the inside yet capable of filling so many hearts. The key to a young girl’s tomorrow.

“So kid, what do you want to talk about?”

“I’d like that guitar.”

“... What’s a guitar?”

The negotiations immediately fell flat. Far from being disappointed, Eli simply acknowledges the fact that the leader of the group doesn’t know of the guitar's real use, meaning its value is most likely extremely low. Without dwelling on the issue, he continues speaking, using the same tone of voice as he did with the guards, a listless cadence altogether lacking in emotional attachment yet is surprisingly persuasive.

“In the corner of this building is a guitar. One of your thieves brought it here earlier today in exchange for food. The boy's name is Ethan.”

“Oh? So ya want that thing, guitar, back? How do you know Ethan? You his buddy?”

“Ethan is your son, it’s only natural that I know him.”

The man stiffens, obviously not expecting such a response. Suspicion causes him to narrow his eyes, his gaze scrutinizing every inch of Eli’s body. Despite not knowing what exactly to look for, he fails to find anything of note from his outer search, the only strangeness being Eli’s demeanor.

“I don’t know how you know that, but you should know to keep quiet. Curiosity killed the cat, kid.”

“I will exchange information with you for that guitar. Information you’re in desperate need of.”

Though he’s completely failing to understand the direction of the conversation, and is growing rather frustrated as a result, Roy continues to talk, the fear of missing important information borrowing its way into his chest like a bullet. His words come out in a threatening growl, which doesn’t even cause the boy’s eyebrow to twitch.

“This better be some juicy fuckin’ info, or I’m having you shot here and now!”

“There are currently 57 of Griff’s men in this camp. They plan on causing a disturbance, which will attract the nearby Enforcers, resulting in the majority of you getting executed. You’ll most likely get the worst punishment, as you’ve killed two Enforcers in the past when you stopped Ethan and his friends from getting punished for shoplifting.”

Time seems to stop for Roy. The information he’s hearing all but confirms his recent suspensions, giving him a feeling of having scratched an out of reach place. At the same time, he’s filled with an inexplicable fear, the words of the young man before him flow so smoothly from his mouth, it leaves him reeling in shock at their actual contents. The uncanny nature of such an individual leaves him with an raw sense of danger and dread, a greater, more instinctual kind than the usual fear he's grown familiar with these past few years.

“... How do you know this?”

“I will not tell you. I will tell you the name of every one of Griff’s supporters in exchange for the guitar.”

That look of suspicion again. However, such suspicion is gradually being replaced with the terror of being surrounded by enemies. The horror of having his son discover his dead body, full of bullet holes, in a pile of rubble gnaws at him. Towards this strange child that seems to know all, Roy can only say one thing, his voice dripping with both hospitality and trepidation.

“Alright… Give me a list…”

Without an ounce of emotion on his face, Eli sifts through the memories that aren’t his own, and condemns 57 men, women, and children to death.