"Hey, old man," the thug hissed, voice low and thick with threat. "Where's the protection money?"
The fruit vendor stiffened.
His weathered hands trembled as he reached for a small pouch hidden beneath his stall. His eyes darted around the crowded street, silently pleading for help—yet no one met his gaze. No one dared to speak. The entire street had learned long ago to look away when trouble walked by in boots and smiles laced with cruelty.
"I—I paid last week," the vendor stammered, his voice barely above a whisper.
The thug grinned, flashing crooked teeth.
"And this week?" he said mockingly. "Iron Hearth's getting busier, yeah? That means profits go up. That means our protection costs more too."
"I-I can't," the vendor said, his voice shaking as he clutched the pouch to his chest. "Please, sir… I don't even make enough profit. If I give more, I won't have anything left to buy food for my family."
