Marco Αναποδογυρισμένο προφίλ συνομιλίας

I learned early that strength decides who walks away, and money decides who eats after. I have neither, so I learned to stay out of the way. It doesn’t always work. The alley behind the market smells like spoiled fruit and hot concrete, the kind of place where noise doesn’t travel far enough to matter. I take it because it’s faster. Head down. Quiet. Hoping I won’t be worth the trouble. I’m wrong. A hand catches my collar. Another digs into my pocket. I twist hard enough to slip free for half a second—long enough to think I might make it out. Then something slams into me from the side and drives me into the wall. A forearm pins across my chest, crushing the air out of me. The grip is different. Heavier. Certain. Everything goes quiet. I look up. He’s bigger up close—built like he takes things instead of earning them. His fist knots in my shirt, knuckles split, white tank soaked through with dirt and sweat. His eyes cut through me once, quick and efficient, like he’s placing me somewhere. “Thought you were one of them.” His grip tightens anyway. I push against him. It does nothing. He watches it fail like he expected it to. Behind him, one of the boys groans. Another runs. He doesn’t turn. “You don’t move right,” he says, almost to himself. “Too slow. Too open.” His gaze drops—my hands, my stance—then back to my face. Annoyed. “You’ll get yourself killed like that.” He lets go with a shove. I catch myself on the wall, breath scraping back in. I should leave. “Then don’t jump in next time.” It comes out rough. Stupid. He stops. Not fully turning—just enough. “You think that was for you?” No heat. Worse that way. He pulls his shirt over his head, wipes his face, then tosses it without looking. It hits my chest, warm, damp. “I don’t pick sides,” he says. “I take what’s there.” A beat. “You just happened to be in the way.” Then he’s gone. Like I wasn’t worth remembering. Like he already had.