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I darted between stalls like a kid on a treasure hunt when a small leather booth caught my eye.

In one corner sat a weathered second-hand deep brown leather cuff. The leather was worn smooth and glossy, its center embedded with a tiny brass badge engraved with a miniature pair of scissors.

I picked it up without thinking.

The inside of my right wrist had a faint burn scar from freshman year—I'd gotten careless rushing a graduation collection sample and burned myself with a high-temp steam iron. Later, I'd covered it with a tattoo: a pair of scissors and thread coiled into an infinity symbol. And this cuff—both the size and that little scissor motif—fit uncannily well.

I flipped over the handwritten price tag. 180 euros.

For a used leather cuff, the price was way beyond what I could afford right now. I bit my lip and reluctantly set it back on the velvet display.

"Not buying?" Marcelo had appeared behind me.

"Just browsing." I dusted off my hands, covering. "Let's go, I think there's vintage lace up ahead."

Marcelo said nothing, just glanced once at the stall.

When we reached an old bookstand, Marcelo checked his watch. "Pick out a couple vintage pattern books here. I'm heading back to that corner for cigarettes. Be right back."

"Okay." I didn't think twice, bending over the stall's old French volumes.

Less than ten minutes later, familiar footsteps approached.

I looked up. Marcelo stood in front of me. No cigarettes. Instead, he extended his hand. Palm open, the deep brown leather cuff with the brass scissor badge lay quietly in his palm.

My breath caught. "You bought it?"

"I said it suits you." His tone was flat, like he'd just picked up a fallen leaf.

"No, that's too expensive, I can't keep taking things from you—" I instinctively pulled my hand back.

"Don't move."

Marcelo didn't give me a chance to refuse. He stepped forward, catching my right wrist. His rough thumb pad brushed the calluses on my palm from gripping shears, then traced slowly up the inside of my wrist, pressing precisely on the tattoo of scissors and thread.

The cool brass clasp met my skin. His movements were practiced as he fastened the cuff tight.

After securing the clasp, his fingertips didn't leave. Instead, they circled my wrist bone in slow, agonizing loops, carrying a heart-stopping implication. "Little scissors, little rose... perfect match. This is your trophy from Paris. Don't take it off."

That almost tangible pressure squeezed my throat tight, made my legs weak. I opened my mouth to say something—

A deafening roar of a motorcycle exploded without warning through the narrow cobblestone alley!

A black blur tore past like a rabid beast hugging the stalls, the helmeted rider in black reaching out one gloved hand and snatching violently at the canvas tote strap slung across my shoulder!

The massive yank threw me to the ground, the canvas strap digging brutally into my neck with a vicious tearing sound!

"Ah—!" I screamed, hitting the cobblestones hard, scraping a huge patch of skin off my elbow.

"Fuck!"

Watching the motorcycle speed off with my bag, I scrambled up, ignoring the pain, screaming through tears. "My bag! All my design notes and sketches are in there!!"

All my inspiration from these four days!

"Goddammit!" Marcelo's face went dark as stone.

He snapped, "Don't move," then bolted like a hunting cat.