Pay the Protection Fee

You slide thirty lentimes to the man.

“Here,” you say. “This week’s payment.”

His smile is slow and satisfied. He picks up the pouch, weighs it in his hand, then pours the crescent-shaped coins into his palm to count them.

“Now this... this I want to see more of.” He pockets the money and leans on his chair, looking you up and down. “Same time next week. Don't be a stranger, eh?”