Enjolras walked smoothly along the roadside, looking straight and sure in front of him as he always did. A collection of coins jingled in his pocket, and he clamped a hand over it to still the persistent noise.

Just as he was turning a corner, he was unexpectedly accosted by a tall figure dressed in rags. "Please, monsieur, just a sou -- or five -- or... I need it, please, good monsieur..."

His lip curling in a mixture of pity and distaste, he fished in his pocket for a coin. The man's face flooded with gratitude as he held it out -- only to be knocked aside by a scurrying passerby, who muttered an apology and rushed on. Shaking his head, Enjolras forgave him and subconsciously put a hand over his pocket. It was flat. Empty.

His head snapped towards the rag-clad beggar, but the man was gone in a flurry of midnight curls. Enjolras cursed.