"Robbing and threatening … it's all I've ever known," Octo muttered. "I just went with it without thinking too much."
After that, a long silence settled between them.
The old man didn't say a word. He simply sat nearby, sipping from a small cup filled with some kind of dark liquid. The quiet was broken only by the occasional groan of pain from Octo, and the soft sound of the old man taking slow sips.
The silence lingered until the old man finally finished his drink.
He stood up without a word, disappeared into the back room, and returned moments later holding a bottle—thick and old-looking. Uncorking it, he sprinkled a fine, shimmering powder over Octo's battered body.
As the dust settled, Octo's injuries twitched and shifted. His wounds began to mend, but only slightly— because the old man did not sprinkle much.
"Pixie dust...?!" Octo gasped, staring at the faint glitter now resting on his skin. "That's rare! How the hell does an old man like you have something like this?"
