For Wokin, the day had already been miserable enough. First, a bunch of outsiders barged into his territory, rummaging through everything he considered his own. That alone was enough to put him in a foul mood. What made it worse was that he had failed to catch even a single one of them. They all slipped away, every last one.
So when a clueless kid suddenly wandered up to him while he was still simmering with frustration, he nearly exploded.
And that kid actually asked him with a straight face whether he was hungry.
Wokin felt his anger twist into something almost comical. He let out an incredulous snort, halfway between irritation and disbelief.
"Yeah, hungry. Of course I'm hungry. How could I not be hungry?"
He lifted his head slowly, glaring at the foolish boy in front of him. His lips curled into a dangerous grin, eyes narrowing with a predator's gleam.
"Right now, I feel like eating you."
"Is that so?"
Moger wasn't startled in the slightest. He only nodded, accepting the threat as casually as if Wokin had merely commented on the weather.
"If you're hungry, then come with me. I have food. Enough for you two to get your strength back."
Wokin blinked.
The kid had already turned away, walking as if bringing strangers home was the most normal thing in the world.
Wokin raised a brow, staring at the boy's small, unguarded back.
Thirteen years. He had lived in Meteor Street for thirteen long, unforgiving years, and never not once had he heard of someone voluntarily offering their own food to others. Not unless they were stupid. Or unless they were scheming.
And around here, the stupid ones rarely survived.
Especially some unfamiliar brat who suddenly showed up asking if he was hungry…
So that meant…
Wokin's eyes grew sharp again, suspicion rolling through them like a storm.
"What's wrong? Didn't you say you were hungry?"
Not hearing any footsteps behind him, Moger stopped and looked back. His gaze landed on Wokin's harsh, distrustful stare, but he didn't tense. Instead, he spoke plainly, almost calmly.
"I know what you're thinking. But I'm not trying to trick you. If you're unsure, or scared, you don't have to come."
"It's up to you."
With that, he simply turned and continued walking toward his home, leaving the decision in their hands without a second glance.
Wokin didn't move at first. He stood stiffly, fingers flexing unconsciously as if working through the sudden uncertainty in his chest.
A broken wooden stick appeared in front of him, raised defensively.
"Even though everything he said sounds strange, I don't feel any danger."
Wokin's expression changed. His rough features, stained with dirt and exhaustion, shifted into something unexpectedly steady and serious. It contrasted sharply with his rugged appearance.
"What do you think, Mara?"
He turned toward the girl beside him, his partner, the one he trusted with his life.
If Wokin were truly just a reckless brute, the kind who only used his fists, he would have died dozens of times already. Surviving in Meteor Street meant more than strength. It meant instincts, judgment, and reading the shadows between people's words.
Mara, her small face still smudged from the earlier chase, shook her head lightly. Her expression remained unreadable as she lowered her wooden stick.
Even covered in dust, she still had the delicate features of a girl who would one day become strikingly beautiful.
"So you don't think there's a problem either?"
Wokin let out a breath. His brows relaxed slightly, and a grin tugged at his mouth.
"Your intuition is better than my gut feeling. Fine. Let's see what this silly kid is planning."
"Though I doubt he's really trying to 'treat' us."
He slapped the dirt from his clothes, straightened himself, and strutted after Moger.
Mara remained silent but followed closely, always just one step behind him.
Running into Wokin and Mara this quickly surprised Moger more than he cared to admit.
But it wasn't hard to understand. Wokin was loud, impulsive, the kind of person whose emotions made him easy to locate. Compared to the older residents of Meteor Street, who kept to themselves and avoided unnecessary entanglements, Wokin was almost approachable.
In the original course of events, Wokin had confronted Chrollo and his companions when they trespassed onto his territory. Instead of attacking immediately, he had threatened first, gauging the situation. Even when throwing something at them to stop their escape, he'd used Mara's flimsy wooden stick, not a rusted metal shard that could actually kill.
And he had fought Franklin in a one-on-one showdown like a true brawler.
Later, after Chrollo and his group performed their improvised "street theater" for the local kids, Wokin's hostility faded, turning into a grudging admiration that eventually led to friendship.
Which meant that right now, Wokin was still nothing more than a tough but rational thirteen-year-old boy.
If he truly tried anything dangerous…
Well, Moger might look weak, but his Nen abilities were real. He wasn't entirely helpless.
"You made it."
At the doorway of his home, Moger glanced back at Wokin and Mara, who had halted with arms folded and chins lifted like they were refusing to be impressed.
"Come in."
Before Wokin could reply, Moger pushed the door open and walked inside.
Wokin's eyebrows twitched. He stared at the open doorway for several seconds.
"Fine. I'll go in. What's the big deal?"
With an exaggerated snort, he strode inside. He had come all the way here. Turning back now would make him a joke.
He could already imagine someone laughing at him later.
"You went all the way to the kid's front door, but didn't even dare step inside."
No way. He wasn't giving anyone that chance.
And besides, Mara's sixth sense had never failed him. If she said there was no danger, then there was no danger.
"What the…?"
The moment he stepped inside, Wokin scanned the room, confused.
It was barren. Almost completely empty. No furniture. No decorations. Nothing.
Even by Meteor Street standards, it was shockingly bare.
"Mara has more stuff in her house than you do."
Standing beside him, Mara glanced sideways at Wokin but didn't bother arguing. Instead, her attention fixed on Moger, studying him quietly, evaluating whether this strange boy truly had no ill intentions.
Her sixth sense warned her about danger, but it didn't grant trust automatically. Vigilance was still necessary.
And Moger… well, he was an odd one.