CW: Domestic/physical abuse, explicit language, misogynistic slur.

A wizened woman with hawkish eyes sits outside her house in a rocking chair, feeding the chickens roaming her tiny yard. Her house is much like any other house lining this dirt road: dilapidated, ramshackle, and in serious need of attention. Only those who aren't residents of the Slums would think this to be a sad state to be in. In reality, this old woman and her neighbours are rather content and acclimated to their poverty, much like frogs in boiling water.

At this moment, mournful wailing and shrieks echo across this street, adding to the already chaotic rabble of the Slums. The old woman pays no mind, calmly watching the house from whence the cries originate. Something smashes. There's the sharp sounds of flesh hitting flesh. A wall shaking thud and more wails.

And yet the old woman continues tossing grains across the brown grass, humming quietly to herself. Despite the cataracts turning her eyes white, there's an intelligent focus and sharpness to them. The violence in that house across from hers is a common occurrence. If not daily. So she is not compelled nor alarmed by the noises. As long as that boy slams open the door. As long as that woman shouts after him. As long as they are both moving and breathing, then there is nothing she needs to do.

Some might call her heartless. She would simply call it 'choosing your battles'.

With good timing, there's a particularly nasty thud and the door slams open. A young man staggers out, as if he had been thrown bodily through the door, and clutching at his cheek. A woman appears in the doorway, heaving with fury, her face wan and pale with scorn. She has a brittle beauty about her with a frame as delicate as a bird's. Despite her agreeable appearance, however, time and suffering has long weathered her features. Her cheeks are sallow and her lovely dark eyes are cold and pitiless. A gentle breeze might blow her over, but those that know her, would be keenly aware of the hidden strength beneath that illusory fragility. A strength of a warrior, twisted over time along with her mind.

The young man straightens up after knocking into the old woman's fence. The latter clicks her tongue and makes a scolding noise, to which the young man responds by crassly spitting upon her precious peonies. Thick blood oozes through the slender fingers grasping at his cheek, trickling down the crevices between his knuckles to the delicate round bone jutting from his wrist. Every drop lands in the dirt and sizzles in the midday heat of the sun.

At first glance, the son is unmistakably his mother's child. He bears the same graceful features and slender frame, a certain androgyny about him that has many initially confused about his gender. Vantablack eyes framed by thick lashes are initially tender, but if one were to gaze upon them for any longer, they might feel Death's glacial fingers trickle down their spines. There's a darkness to them that even Solaris' rays can never reach. But the darkness is enchanting to onlookers, like the black hellebore blooms, they hold a deadly enticement. Shoulder length sable locks fall messily around his face and into those hellebores. His clothes are just as unkempt, common tan work pants and cotton shirt once white but now stained with dirt and grime. A splattering of red dyes the threads, written testament to the most recent violence.

"I can't bear it!" the woman, Dasom, yells unsteadily. She reaches inside before tossing a fire poker at her son. "How could I raise such a monster? The shame of it! The shame! Have you no heart? No morals? Did I not teach you right from wrong?"

The young man, Rin, skips out of the way and the fire poker clatters harmlessly against the old woman's fence. Her chickens squawk and flap their wings in alarm, scattering across the yard in a frenzy. The old woman sighs and tucks away the grain bag, rocking gently as she watches this tired drama unfold.

"Fucking bitch, look what you did to my face!" How could such ugly words be uttered in such a pleasant voice? A hock and a spit follows, this time aimed at Dasom's feet. The distance between them is too far however, and so it's more of a gesture than anything tangible. "If you ruin my face, how the fuck am I supposed to get laid? Don't you want grandchildren one day, mother?"

Dasom's cheeks flush a dangerous red. This time a log comes flying at the young man, who simply jumps out of the way again. "Disgusting, vile creature. Don't you dare call me that. You are not my son! How could you be? You are not the same child I have raised for eighteen years! I don't even know who you are anymore!"

"Are you going senile now? Do you need your head fucking checked?" Rin pauses to catch his breath, wincing as he dabs gingerly at the gash on his cheek with his sleeve. He glances around to see the old woman serenely watching. His face twists into an ugly expression. "Enjoying the show?" he sneers, giving her fence a hard kick. A plank of wood is dislodged from its place, leaving a sizable hole. Having no reaction from the elder at all, Rin scowls and starts off down the road, sick to death of his mother's incessant shrieking.

"Go on!" she shouts after him, face turning pale with anger. "Go to your Roses and your drinks and those scoundrels you call friends. Go and be the useless wastrel like you always are. And don't you bother coming back!" The door slams on the last word, the sound reverberating down the street.

Rin flips a rude gesture at the door before sauntering towards the marketplace, a rather cruel expression crawling across his face.

The old woman watches all this with nary a sound. Her eyes linger on the youth's retreating form, her gaze both penetrating and thoughtful. Letting out a short sigh, she opens up her grain bag and tosses a handful to her chickens. It's only then when she realises that all her chickens are gone, having escaped through the new hole in her fence.