There are a lot of people milling about the markets, none of which pay any mind to the small, thin, pale child crouched by an empty crate. He's dressed in a shabby kimono that's a size or so too small, and might have once been light blue and patterned with butterflies, but the dyes have faded with constant exposure to the sun.

He sizes up a potential mark, and falls into a familiar rhythm. He's done this many times before and he will do it many more until he can find other ways to afford food.

A ball bounces out in front of his mark, into which he promptly and clumsily slams into, like any child who doesn't know how to look where they're going. If he happens to snag a wallet, money pouch, or some fine piece of jewelry, well. That's not anyone's fault is it? His prize quickly disappears into the recesses of his sleeve as he bows in apology before scurrying off after his ball.

By the time the poor sod notices that they've been had, he's already making a beeline for the alley.