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His real name was Culchulain, but most people never called him that. Too hard to pronounce, too hard to remember, so he'd become only 'Scar', for the savage scar across his face. He hunches his shoulders in his coat, less because he's cold but more because of the weight of some darker emotion that crossess his features like a storm cloud, flashing lightning in his startling red eyes. He's been inquiring after work lately, though the question remains of his chances of getting it, with such a dangerous air about him. An alertness to the darker goings on in the world that most people, if they did roust themselves from an arrogant enforced ignorance, pretended not to notice.
Maybe it's that sharp awareness that draws his percing eyes directly to Jim as the boy shuffles in, watching him in silence as he plods into the market.

Now that was interesting....and for once even Scar can't help but demonstrate his heightened interest, ear tips raising slightly even as his brows furrow into an even deeper scowl than normal. It didn't look like a braselet...or not one he was wearing on purpose....so what was it? Did it have something to do with what he was looking for?

He seemed to take the gesture as some sort of silent signal to move in, stalking toward Jim as he adjusts his shades to partialy conceal his brillaint red eyes again. He offers no introduction, no verbal warning that might, in his mind, prompt the boy to sprint off with the information he wants, just waits until he thinks he's close enough behind and moves to grab Jim's wrist just above the bracelet where it bits into the skin.
"This. Explain it. Now." He growls. Voice as stark as his expression. Up close he looks younger, just terribly terribly worn as though by weather and the savage workings of life. Though his tone certainly also indicates he's in no mood for Jim to be flippant, and that to do is desidedly unlikely to improve the situation.

"I mistook you for someone with more braincells to scrape together." The scarred man growls, his grip tightening, as though he were considering testing the theory that an arm could be snapped by only the power of his grip. With his determination, and the power of the arms under his admittedly bright coat, it has a certain credibility. "I beleive I asked you a question. You haven't answered it." He snarls, lifting the arm on which he has a grip to display, more vividly, the deep raw marks from it's biting grip as though to punctuate the transparentness of Jim's weak lies and feeble, unwise bravado.

Scar ignores Jim's commandment, and his grip barely loosens. Just enough so that it no longer feels as though he's trying to force bone to it's snapping point. His own eyes don't have Jame's fever brightness of young rage, their heat goes far deeper into something much harder to extinguish.
"Hm." He growls, without breaking the intense stare. "Continue. Or I damage someones property."

"No." Scar answers simply, his grip tightening again. He doesn't like being forced to talk more than he has to, it's simply not in his character, but this thick headed youth obviously needs a little more pointing out that he's not in a position where Lip is going to do anything for him but hurt. "You're not too bright are you?" His mouth twitches in what -might- be a smile, but you'd almost need some sort of microscope to see the minute flicker of it. That and maybe a high speed camera.
Definitely not the sharpest knife in the drawer, this kid, in fact probably about as close as you got to being a butter knife without having actual mental damage, from the way he was acting at the moment. It took a special sort of 'self preservation' failure for someone this young and green to not react to an silent threat to publicly break his arm.
He flicks the gold bracelet with the fingers of his free hand, by way of indication. "Give me a name." He adds, cooly.
I swear if he makes one more joke.... He snarled inwardly.