Pete has cancer. There, he said it, now shut up. He needs sympathy like he needs a ten-foot pole shoved up his ass. Yes, it's serious, yes, he's gonna be dead in whatever dwindling number of months the doctor said this time, he's come to terms with it, everyone else can hurry up and do that too.

Other than that, he's normal. He likes to remind himself of that, he won't wear sad nearly-dead people clothes, he keeps on bleaching his hair 'cause he likes it better that way, keeps on getting tattoos, watching TV shows he'll never see the end of, buying food that'll last longer than he will. After all, what else is there to do but keep on going?

Today is no different. He's heading into town, gonna go buy some more shampoo, get lunch after. He'll head to a club later, the same one he always goes to, the honey-pot that makes him loathe being a bee, but he'd sooner drown in it than pass it up. Pete's a planner, he likes to know the agenda, make the agenda. The law is in his blood, alongside the cancer.

That's the one thing his dad gave him, other than his eyes; a justice serving empire, raking in thousands for every criminal it locks up. He doesn't like to brag, but it's a simple fact: he's rich. Nice house, nice suit, nice watch, he looks the part. Doesn't always feel it, though. He lets other people run the business for him, pace the courtrooms, cite the statutes. All he has to do is show up to a few meetings, smile, nod along with their corporate bullshit, then leave. He likes to compare himself to Bruce Wayne in that sense, the (nearly) millionaire with too much time on his hands. Except, without the nocturnal death-defying tendencies.

He likes the city. It's dingy and soot-stained and so full of rubbish it could double as a landfill site, but it's where he's always been. He knows it, every highway, every alleyway, knows where he's most likely to get a decent coffee and where he's most likely to get stabbed.

It's busy today; well, it's always busy, but Pete finds himself accidentally bumping into more people than usual, feeling elbows in his ribs and car horns in his brain. He's in no hurry, though, the only guy on the street dressed in suit who isn't running for the underground.

There's a lot of places that sell shampoo. The department store a few blocks away, the supermarket across the street, the elegant barber's shops which practically scream don't come in here unless you're rich.

Pete hates all that, though. He never buys from places like those, going out of his way to find little independent stores with bells on the doors and small ads in the windows, where he can be a regular, not just some corporate zombie. His favourite is tucked away off the main road, the crowd thinning as he shimmies through it, away from the feel of breath on his face and smoke in his lungs.

It's a cute little place, at least, to him it is. The scarlet paint is peeling and the glass of the window is so grimy you'd never know it was clear in the first place, but it's got character. As he walks though the door, the few people in there smile at him.

"Hey, Martha," he says brightly, waving to the lady at the counter. She's short and bespectacled, the type of person you wouldn't remember if you saw them in a crowd. But she doesn't mind that, and neither does Pete. Like the shop, she's a hidden gem.

"Hi, Pete, how're you doing?" she asks, smiling. She's one of those people who actually, genuinely seems to care about others.

"Oh, fine, fine," he sighs, as usual. "You?"

"Can't complain, dear. Did you know, the bookshop has gone under?" she exclaims, waggling a finger at Pete and leaning heavily against the counter.

They talk for a few minutes, swapping news, trivial matters that Pete didn't know he cared about. He finds himself extremely emotionally invested in whether the new housing estate east of the city will create more traffic, really wants to know whether Mr. Reynolds found those shoes he wanted in the right size.

Eventually, she points him in the direction of the toiletries, and Pete thanks her, despite the fact that he's been here a thousand times, and knows exactly where to find what he's looking for.

Armour or Intense Clean, the eternal question. Armour smells nicer. And it's blue, too, which is obviously the best colour. But then, Intense Clean lasts longer. Ugh, he's never been good at making important decisions.

In the end, he just shoves both of them in the basket slung over his arm, he can always give one to somebody in need of shampoo. He could become a freelance shampoo dealer; be the one everyone thinks of when they have greasy hair, be hailed by millions as the hair-cleaning god.

Or, he could just buy the damn shampoo and get out of here.

It's as he turns to weave his way back through the aisles when he sees somebody he's never seen in here before. He's almost offended; this is his spot, he knows everyone, what the hell is some stranger doing in his spot? This guy isn't even dressed for going outside, let alone being around other humans; he's wearing a sweater, like, three sizes too big, jeans with gaping holes in the knees, a moth-eaten rucksack, scuffed old trainers and a trucker hat that looks like it might've actually been under a few trucks in its time.

Now, Pete doesn't like to judge, so he calmly tells himself that people can wear what they want, even if it is a crime against all that is good and holy, and goes to move away, when he sees something that really does offend him.

The guy reaches out for something, grabs it, then stuffs it in the pocket of his hoodie, keeping his head bent low, hardly moving.

He's stealing, Pete thinks incredulously, frowning at the guy as he reaches for something else. He's stealing from my beloved little shop. Clenching his jaw, he decides he better do something about this.

The aisle isn't long, it only takes him a few steps to shuffle along until he's near the guy. They both pretend to be enthralled by the electric toothbrushes, when Pete sees the guy make to move away, probably to go see what else he can take. But Pete moves fast; he shoots an arm out and grabs the guy by the wrist before he can get away.

"Whoa, there, what're you doing?" he says pitifully, feeling the guy struggle, looking back at Pete with confused panic.

He can see his face better now, and under the hat, there's just a kid. His face is fringed with sideburns blurring into stubble, long hair falling over his forehead, mouth slightly open and wide eyes shocked and guilty.

Pete's probably not that much older than this kid, but he still feels that old-person despair at the state of the younger generation. "Are you shoplifting?" he says, like a parent who's caught their child with a hand in the cookie jar.

The kid doesn't say anything, but the way his face reddens and his eyes dart downwards tell Pete the answer to his question.

He sighs, shaking his head, and suddenly feeling like a valuable member of society whose duty it is to teach the youth the errors of their ways. "Listen, kid, you could end up in prison for this. Even if you don't, you'll get a criminal record, and that makes it hard to get a job, okay? You don't wanna ruin your future, do you?"

No response, other than a huff and a scowl. Pete decides to pull the sob-story.

"Look, you see Martha over there?" he leans round the aisle and points to her, chattering away on the phone. "She owns this store. She's a single mum, she's got two kids to feed, this place is her income. You steal from here, you're taking food off their plates, do you understand that?"

The kid keeps on staring at him. "So you're saying I should steal from the supermarket instead?" he frowns, looking sceptical.

Pete sighs again, getting more frustrated by the second. "No, I'm saying – I just – look, just don't steal at all, okay? What have you taken, let me see," he says roughly, keeping hold of the kid's wrist and diving his other hand into the pocket of his sweater.

The kid struggles, trying to swat Pete's hand away, but when Pete shoots him a warning look, goes still. As he fishes the stuff out, though, Pete frowns; he was expecting booze or cigarettes, instead, he finds soap, a razor, and a tube of toothpaste.

"What's this? You can't afford soap?" he laughs slightly, frowning.

The kid shakes his head. Pete raises his eyebrows, feeling pity spread through him. Maybe he can cut the boy a bit of slack.

"Okay...well, listen – if you need this stuff, then I'll get it for you," he says gently, a sense of charity surging through him. He drops the items into his own basket and digs his wallet out his pocket. The kid watches him warily, and Pete tries to smile to get him to calm down a bit. "You want anything else? Toothbrush? Deodorant?" he adds, starting to catch the whiff of mould and stale sweat that seeps from the kid.

Letting go of his wrist, Pete opens his wallet, staring into it and hoping he has the cash for this. It's fine, though, because Queen Elizabeth II stares back, so he smiles and takes out the crisp fifty, making a little cheering noise.

The kid doesn't smile back, though, so Pete coughs and goes back to looking at the array of toothbrushes, silently wishing the would-be-thief might show a little gratitude.

But Pete barely looks round in time to see the boy snap out a hand and swipe the fifty from Pete's grasp, before turning and bolting out of the store.

All that's left of him is the chiming of the bell on the door.

Pete stares after him for a bit, his empty hand still clasped around an invisible bill. So much for charity, then. He thinks about chasing after the kid, but he really doesn't have the energy. He'd never catch him, anyway.

Sighing in frustration, and feeling a profound sense of annoyance towards that sneaky kid, he starts to put back the stuff the boy had tried to take, trying not to think about what kind of a life he must have if he can't afford soap. He could've been lying, though. Kids these days, it could've just been some act to get him to take his wallet out. Maybe the kid had been planning this all along.

He then realises that he doesn't have any other cash, so he can't even buy the thing he came here for; he'll have to go to one of the chain stores and pay by card. It was only a fifty, but Pete huffs all the same. Stupid kid. He'll probably just go spend it all on drugs, end up in prison, or dead.

It's with a scowl on his face and an empty basket that he mooches out of the store, dumping the basket in the basket-storing place and giving Martha a quick wave before he reaches the door. So much for being the god of clean hair.

The rest of the day is boring as hell. He spends most of it being annoyed at that little shit in the shop, and muttering under his breath about the inconsiderate youth. He might as well be sitting in an armchair, smoking cigars and using the word whipper-snappers.

The club is the only place for Pete now, after the excitement of shampoo buying, and he doesn't care that it's only six o'clock in the evening, he's gonna go blow a load of money on cheap booze and handsome strangers.

He'll never see that kid again.