This is technically the third chapter in the story, but the second one refuses to come out, so here you go. In keeping with my personal canon, Chrona is referred to as 'it' in this chapter. It's less awkward than going "Chrona Chrona Chrona" all the time.
-Nir
The sun always goes down early when it was cold. Right now it sits on top of only the shortest buildings, glinting an eye-piercing orange off the windows of the skyscrapers.
Chrona shivers, keeping the sweatshirt it wears tucked close to its body. The sweatshirt belonged to an earlier victim, a man easily four or five times the tiny child's size. The bagginess of it makes it hard to keep cold air from getting in, and there's no way to close up the hole Ragnarok made earlier.
There are no more men with bells. Chrona has scared them all off and only managed to get one. Medusa will be disappointed, and Chrona will have to sleep outside in worse cold than this.
How long has it been since Medusa left them here? The sun was high then, and the sky was light blue. Now it's purple, orange where it meets the sun. Fatigue and weakness have begun to settle on Chrona's limbs; the consequences of nonstop running on an empty belly. The smell of food from the street vendors' carts is maddening, but Chrona can't let itself be seen. Everybody knows, now. Everybody's looking for them. Chrona has failed, but Medusa isn't coming back yet. If they stay there, someone will find them for sure, but it's so hard to keep moving when you're so tired and cold.
Ragnarok says they should steal. The food is right there in the open. It would be so easy to just grab something and run away before anyone noticed. Chrona worries they won't be fast enough, but Ragnarok is hungry too and won't take no for an answer. From their hiding place behind a dumpster, Chrona can see a vendor very close by. He's selling something in little bags, striped red and white. It smells sweet.
Now go, Ragnarok says, and Chrona darts out, not looking at anything but the cart. It's the same height as Chrona is, making it difficult to see just what they're grabbing, but Chrona's fingers manage to fasten around one of the small bags the man has sitting on the counter.
Hey, kid! The man shouts, but Chrona knows it would be deadly to turn around now. The bag is warm, comforting, the heat almost like a living body's. But they're not safe yet. The man could be chasing them. So Chrona runs, fear of capture providing enough adrenaline to power its tired body another few hundred yards.
Finally, Chrona comes to a stop, simply because it cannot run any longer. They're in a park, kneeling on the scrubby winter grass under the leafless trees. There's a small bridge nearby. The stream that was once beneath it is mostly dry. Chrona ducks underneath. The contents of the bag have gone cold, but it's okay. It's food, the first in many hours. Ragnarok is slathering in anticipation. Open it, he says. Chrona does.
The bag is not full of peanuts. It is full of smelly, crumpled tube-shaped objects. Cigarette butts.
Ragnarok curses.
It is another four hours before Medusa comes.