The winter wind cut a harsh line against his back, pressing his thin jacket closer against his frame. It did little to keep out the chill, but he supposed it was better than digging through his closet and pulling out winter clothes that were probably still in need of a wash from the fading tides of the last cold snap of spring. The cold always brought with it unbidden memories of his father, always a stoic and frigid individual. He scowled, pulling his collar up and then thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, his nails biting crescent moons into the flesh of his palm.
The buildings in this part of town were skeletons, empty faces with gaping windows and walkways full of cracking concrete like crooked teeth. Interspaced between the bones of civilization shone the odd gem, a house that was more a home, with well maintained grass and fresh paint to add a sheen of life to an otherwise dead street. They were admittedly few, more coal than diamonds, and more than likely a front for moving drugs or selling an evening with blond hair, blue eyes and track marks. It was disgusting, but suiting to his purpose.
The sidewalk he strolled was spiderwebbed with fissures, through which the last vestiges of summer tried desperately to cling to life. They withered at his passing even as he compulsively skipped each one.
Step on a crack, and you break your mothers back. He thought derisively as he went out of his way to avoid each and every one. He sped the last few steps, stopping in front of a newly whitewashed fence and slipping through the gate. A front. The man at the door shook his hand, slipping a small something into his coat sleeve even as the same was done in return. The cash disappeared with the man behind the door. Johnathan wished, in the faint way you hope for the unlikely, than he had been invited in to warm his hands. It was no matter. The cold was hardly a pause for the child of Hades.