It was about noon when the girl stepped onto the subway, her short, jagged, uneven auburn-red hair in pigtails, her velvet, aqua-blue eyes like burnt out stars. Her jeans were ripped, her shirt and jacket as thin as possible, but she kept her head held high.
Her fingers touched the cold metal body of the lighter in her jacket pocket; she'd used up her last smoke about an hour earlier. She needed another pack of cigarettes.
Fumbling about on the train, she realized she had no money. When was the last time she had cash?
She thought back to yesterday; ah, yes, yesterday, when she spent ten dollars on her previous smokes. She muttered a barely audible shit beneath her breath as she slumped back down in her seat. Her stomach grumbled in response.
"Not now, goddamn it," she murmured again, looking up to check if eyes were on her. No one was looking her way. No one thought she was a crazy hobo talking to herself on the train. She sighed in relief and tried to contain her hunger, but her stomach just wouldn't let her.
She grimaced and vowed that when she got off of the train, she'd find some money and buy herself some food.
About three minutes after the female hopped on the subway, a street musician walked in and sat across from her, placing his guitar case next to him carefully. His hazel eyes twinkled as if he was content with his life, though there was a sad glow to his pale face. His blonde hair looked like he hadn't combed it in days, which was obviously true.
The hazel-eyed boy stuck one hand in his jacket pocket and felt the rough twenty-dollars he'd earned playing guitar on the streets.
He looked nervous, ran his hands through his hair, and glanced at the girl in front of him. She looked pissed, so he averted his gaze from her and instead watched the subway doors to see who was walking in.
A few seconds after the blonde started watching the subway doors, an intimidating short man strode into the train. He was thug, yes, who spent most of his life on the streets with danger all around him. He had jet-black hair that contrasted with his uniquely bright pair of eyes, which were the color of ice.
He himself seemed to be made of ice as well, because he gave everyone around him the cold shoulder (as if he was the only one on the subway), and never once cracked a smile.
His silver-blue eyes grazed his surroundings as he parted a small crowd (no one wanted trouble with him). He stood next to the seated auburn-haired female, aware people were staring at him, and felt the gun in his pants pocket.
During the course of time these that three rode on the subway, velvet, aqua-blue eyes met a glaring pair of silver-blue ones, but neither the female nor the male made a gesture to contact each other. Silver-blue eyes met a pair of burnt out, yet still twinkling hazel ones, but neither the musician nor the first male spoke.
The girl stepped out of the train, the male right behind her, and the musician behind him.
They went their separate ways.
But little did they know that their paths would cross again.
-END OF PROLOGUE-