Beneath the city's busy streets lies an underground tunnel. 

People use the tunnel to buy and sell illegal goods.

Few people know it exists, but today it is unusually busy.

In the middle stand two men.

"What is it?" One man asks, giving the thin glass jar of gray smoke a gentle shake.

The gray smoke swirls, slowly turning a shade of green.

“It’s called a fog spirit,” the other man says.

The first man studies it for a moment. “It’s nothing but smoke in a jar.” He glances at the other with a furrowed brow. “Are you sure it’s a spirit?” 

“I know what I am talking about. This thing is dangerous.”

The first man lets out a small laugh. “How can it be so dangerous if it is in a jar?” 

He lifts a hand and taps the glass twice. 

The fog recoils, turning a deep shade of red.

“I’ll sell it to you for twelve pence.” 

“What’s it even good for? Decoration?”

“Most people use it to make potions because it makes their effects last longer.” He hesitates. “Others use it as a sort of drug…”

The first man looks at the other. “Drug?”

“While it isn’t very common, there are some that will add nightwing pollen to the jar to paralyze it.” He lets out a breath. “Then they will allow a small amount to enter their lungs… which gives them hallucinations.”

The first man scoffs. “How ridiculous…” 

…

“I’ll give you eleven.”

The other’s eyes light up. “Deal.”

They shake hands and go their separate ways.

The man examines the jar for a while as the red turns back to gray before storing it in his pocket.

Inside the jar, curled against the glass, sits a small boy made of fog.

The boy watches the passing people from the opening, pressing against the glass.

"That's the third time now..." 

He counts his fingers. 

"First the potion master, then the dealer... now what will I be used for..."

He presses his forehead against the glass.

"I wonder if Mama is looking for me…”

As he watches, he sees someone running the other way. 

"Someone must be late..." he murmurs.

Then another person runs past.

Then another.

Within seconds, the hallway erupts into hurried footsteps.

The man carrying the jar slows.

He glances over his shoulder.

"...What's go-"

Before he can finish, the man spins around and bolts in the opposite direction.

The boy peers through the opening of the pocket as a man with red hair and yellow eyes approaches down the hallway, carrying a long, shiny silver sword.

The man carrying the jar turns the corner and keeps running until he stops.

"...Dammit..."

The words barely leave his mouth.

He stares at the stone wall ahead.

Dead end.

The red-haired man rounds the corner and slowly approaches.

The man carrying the jar quickly turns around.

“P-please…“ he stutters. “I have no idea how I got here!” He lets out a nervous laugh.

The red-haired man scoffs.

Before the man can react, steel flashes.

The man carrying the jar keels over, his knees hitting the pavement.

The sudden impact throws the jar from the pocket, causing a crack to appear.

The jar lands near a set of stairs, leading to the lower floor. 

The red-haired man wipes his sword clean with a cloth before glancing over at the jar. He takes a step towards it.

“I… I don’t want to go back…” 

Every echoing footstep draws closer.

He glances back at the stairs.

With every bit of strength he can muster, he shoves the cracked jar over the edge.

It bounces down.

Once.

Twice.

The crack spreads.

...

Then shatters against the stone below.