It had been an ordinary night. The stars were dancing, the moon brightened up the streets, and the tune of jazz were almost flowing out of every club. Men with suits came walking out from the clubs, with beautiful women on their arms. They grinned like fools, all of them – so he didn't envy them. He were a boy, no – a man with honour.

Carrying his saxophone and his jacket over his left shoulder, he walked through the city, embraced in the wonder of the night. He wanted to play, of course he did. But he didn't have a job at the moment. No groups had use for a saxophonist. Especially one with white hair, blue eyes – and a voice almost no one got to hear.

Sometimes, it felt like no one could see him. So he stopped talking. No one cared. No one even noticed. So why should he start doing it again? No, if he were to speak, he did it through his music. If anyone could a problem with that… He was outta town fast as lightning. No town were home to him. He didn't even know where he really came from. Parents? No, he couldn't really remember them either. He was a stray cat, just searching for shelter and some food. Didn't need anything else.

Or so he thought.

"You better let go of my arm."

The feminine voice echoed through the alley, as a call from the wild. Her voice was firm, almost like a warning. He was tricked to go after it, and he did. Followed the voice, not knowing what he would find. He didn't have much else to do, so why worry?

"Why, miss DunBroch? Ya done for the night …" A hic from a drunken fellow. "With ya singin' and all, ain't that right?"

"Now, you know I got a temper, so why don't you let go and we can all go home safe, hm?"

The laugh from the drunk made it go cold down his body.

"Ya sure know how to fool the boys, street-cat!"

A loud noise, a man's scream when something hit the brick walls. He wasn't sure if he wanted to see this, if anything could be done – but he was already there.

A read-headed girl pressed the drunk against the wall, while snarling slightly.

"Go home. Let us part ways with all limbs in their proper places."

She wasn't tall. Not full of muscles. She actually seemed like a petite, young lady, barely 18 years old. But there she stood, holding a full grown man against a wall of bricks, making it clear that she were the one to decide what she would do and not.

"Alright, miss DunBroch, all right," the old fellow whimpered, and as soon as she let go, he scurried away like a rat into the shadows. Reminded him of something.

Probably nothing.

"You're alright, miss?"

The redhead turned to him, studying him from head to toe, then looked away.

"I'm fine, boy. I have brains, unlike drunken sailors."

Sharp tongue.

"I noticed," he replied, a bit hesitant – but amused.

"Do you want something?" she asked, the sharp tongue clicking. He took the opportunity the moment she looked at him again, and stared. He saw her eyes. Blue as the cleanest ocean, freckles on her face, and her lips ready to attack with another word. Her hair had no boundaries, whatsoever, and reminded him of some kind of fire.

"No. No, miss," he mumbled.

The redhead rolled her eyes. Dressed in pants and a shirt, she was quite different. Not completely a suit, but still. She was a girl; she wasn't supposed to use pants.

"Goodnight," she said, and hurried the other way. He stood there, baffled by this different girl, not even knowing who she was. He was, well, fascinated. He knew how it was to be different, how to not fit in – put he didn't know this girl. Maybe she did fit in. Maybe she felt at home in this place, knew where she belonged.

He didn't know. He didn't even know her name.

It was a strange feeling that overwhelmed him. It told him to go after her, but keep himself in the shadows. It was important. He felt like a creep, but it seemed too important to ignore. Like the girl was in trouble. Real trouble.

The boy was no drunk. Not even close – but muscles? He got lots of them. And the hair… Where could he start with the hair? He reminded more of a girl when it came to that.

The redhead bumped into him in another alley.

Yes. Yes, he had followed her. But that was because he got this strange feeling. He remembered it from his younger days, where he often showed up in the right places in the strangest time. One time, he saved a girl from falling of a cliff. Another, he stopped a man from ending his life, using a old pistol. All those times, he had a feeling.

That something wasn't right. And he got it right.

"DunBroch. Funny meeting you here."

"Let me pass, Macintosh."

"I just want to talk to you."

"Nothing you say could possibly interest me," she snarled, and shoved him away. The so-called Macintosh wasn't too pleased with her reaction, and quickly got in front of her.

"You were promised to me."

"I don't care."

Miss DunBroch – sounded Scottish enough – tried to get past him, but he was not going anywhere. He looked at her with this stare. Very intense.

"I was humiliated that night."

"Good for you. Maybe you got to learn how it is to not get everything on a silver plate."

She should've never said that to him. He was already angry, but she probably knew it. And she probably didn't care. She seemed like that type of girl.

Macintosh got both of her arms, and managed to get her to whimper, but only a bit.

"I'll get my honour back, DunBroch, and your father…"

The redhead narrowed her eyes. Fury buried their way into her, but Macintosh was anything but weak. Before the young man could tell her more…
He dropped in, not invisible like usually.

"Sir, shouldn't you let a lady get home safely at such an late hour?"

He made sure his comment came in a smooth tone, so it would make Macintosh a bit more irritated at him. The Scottish man turned his way, and yes – he was angry.

"That's none of your business… Old man."

"The hair, right," he laughed, putting his saxophone-case down. "Put are you sure you want to do this? We could part ways, without doing anything drastic."

The redhead narrowed her eyes at him, as if she was angry he stole her fight.

Macintosh mumbled something, but he actually let go of her.

"You got lucky," he said to her, before wandering off, deeper in the alley. But the Scottish man made sure he stared at him long enough to create a rivalry.

Too bad he wouldn't meet up with him again.

As soon as they were alone, DunBroch gave him a quick nod.

"Thank you."

"Nothing to wo-"

"But I could've handled it myself."

This lady couldn't be for real.

"Hey, I actually help-"

"And I'm thankful. That's why I'm asking you what you got there."

She pointed at his saxophone. He raised an eyebrow.

"You know that's a saxophone," he said, not quite getting why she was curious.

"So pick it up," she almost demanded, still pointing at it. Well, couldn't hurt.

He opened the case, picked the instrument up, and waited for another comment.

"And you can play it?"

"Why do you think I-"

"Really play?"

She was good at interrupting him, that for sure. And he knew how to answer her.

He started to play.

The redhead kept her focus on him at first, but the longer he played, the notes flowing together like a river, the more she disappeared into the song. He kept on playing, letting his all go together with the song. It was the only way he could express himself without the use of words. And tonight he had used more words than he usually did.

The song came to an end. He stopped playing. The redhead mumbled something, before she raised her head and got eye contact with him.

"Do you have a job?" she asked.

"Not at the moment, no," he replied, sighing. The redhead turned away a second. As if she didn't want him to see her think. Then she looked at him again.

"We're actually in need of a good saxophonist. Interested?"

He stood still for a moment. She offered him as job? This was like lightning from the blue sky – but in reality, it was as grey as the pavement. Still!

"Are you kidding? That would be the clearest yes that you had ever heard!"

"Good," she said, seeming satisfied with the big grin that crossed his face. "My name's Merida. Merida DunBroch. And you?"

She reached out her hand. He looked at it. Not sure if it was safe – but if it meant a job, and a funny time ahead… Sure, why not.
He took her hand.

"Name's Jack. Jack Frost. Nice to meet you, miss."