The Alley
The streets were quiet, save for the low hum of conversation drifting out of a shadowed alleyway. Three men stood huddled together, their laughter low and cruel, the kind that came easy to men who'd never had to answer for anything.
The chubby man, still bearing the marks of Raphael's attack, clenched his fists so tight his knuckles ached. His face twisted with something closer to hate than anger. "Damn that brat," he muttered. "If only I could get my hands on him. I'd make him regret ever crossing me."
"Come on, man, you know that ain't happening." The red-haired man let out a short chuckle, shaking his head. "Not while the boss is watching."
"Yeah." The grey-eyed took a slow drag, exhaling into the cold night air. The smoke curled and vanished above them. "Boss has a real soft spot for the bastard. Won't let none of us near him."
"And you know how the boss gets when someone touches what belongs to him." The red-haired man smirked, leaning against the wall. "Goes half mad. Seen it happen before."
"Fuck that." The chubby man kicked the brick wall hard enough to scrape his boot, the sound sharp in the quiet. "Fuck him and fuck that brat."
"Chill out." The grey-eyed man's sneer widened. "You'll get your revenge soon enough. Once the little sister's in our hands, you can take it out on her instead."
"You do like them young, don't you?" the red-haired man teased, nudging him with an elbow.
The chubby man licked his lips, his grin curling into something perverse. "Yeah. The little girl's quite the eye-catcher, from what I hear."
The three of them burst into laughter, the sound bouncing off the narrow walls.
"That," a voice said from behind them, "is very, very disgusting."
The laughter died at once.
The voice had come from the dark end of the alley. Low. Deep. Carrying something underneath it that didn't sit right, something none of them could name.
Slowly, they turned.
An old man stood there, unmoving, like he'd been part of the shadows the whole time and had only now chosen to step forward.
The chubby man puffed out his chest, though something in his gut told him to be careful. He ignored it. "Hey, old man. What the hell do you want?"
Subaru didn't move. His eyes were empty, flat, like something had been scraped out of them long ago. "I don't have a problem with you," he said. "Not yet."
The red-haired man scoffed, pushing off the wall. "Who the hell do you think you are, talking to us like that?"
"Old man." The grey-eyed man's sneer sharpened. "If you know what's good for you, you'll turn around and walk away. Right now."
Hehehehehe.
The chuckle started low, almost nothing, but it grew, spreading through the alley like something spilling. It filled the space between them with a sound that made the hair on their arms rise.
"What's so funny?" the chubby man barked, stepping forward and grabbing Subaru by the collar.
The air changed.
It grew heavier, thick enough to feel in the lungs, pressing down like the whole alley had shrunk around them.
Subaru's voice dropped, lower now, almost unrecognizable. "I'll count to three. If you don't let go of me before I finish."
The chubby man's grip tightened out of stubbornness more than confidence. "And what? What're you gonna do about it, old man?"
"One."
The grey-eyed man shifted his weight, glancing toward the mouth of the alley. "Hey. Maybe we should just…."
"What are you talking about?" the red-haired man snapped, though his hand had drifted toward his belt.
"Two."
The chubby man grinned, baring his teeth. "I ain't letting go. Matter of fact, I think you'd make a fine slave once I'm done with you."
"Three."
For a moment, nothing happened. The alley held still, the kind of stillness that comes right before something breaks.
Then a sound. Wet, fast, final.
Blood sprayed across the cobblestones.
The chubby man's mouth fell open, but nothing came out except a strangled, gurgling noise. He looked down.
"AAAAARRGGGHHHH! MY HAND! MY FUCKING HAND!"
His right hand lay on the ground beside him, fingers twitching in the puddle spreading beneath it.
The grey-eyed man staggered back, his face draining of color. "His hand. He cut off his hand. I didn't even see him move."
The chubby man dropped to his knees, clutching the stump against his chest, blood soaking through his sleeve. "AAAAHHH! FUCK, FUCK, IT HURTS!"
Subaru crouched beside him, unhurried, his voice quiet. "How does it feel?"
The chubby man's breathing caught, ragged and uneven.
"How does it feel to be the one on your knees for once?" Subaru asked. "To be the weak one?"
"P-please. Please, I'm sorry, I didn't mean any of it, I swear."
Subaru reached out, gripped the back of his head, and slammed it into the stone. Once. Twice. A third time. The cobblestones cracked beneath the impact, dark lines spreading through the old rock.
The red-haired man finally broke from his shock. "You son of a bitch!" He lunged forward with a dagger drawn, the blade catching what little light there was.
Subaru sidestepped, almost lazily.
Then his hand shot out, closing around the man's wrist mid-swing.
A twist, sharp and economical.
"AAAARRRGGGHHH! MY ARM, MY ARM!"
Bone tore through skin, white against the dark blood. The arm hung wrong, bent at an angle no arm was meant to bend.
Subaru's grip moved from the wrist to the throat, fingers closing slow and deliberate.
"GAAGGHH! GHHK!" The red-haired man's legs kicked out, scrabbling against the ground, his face darkening toward purple.
"You talk too much," Subaru said, almost to himself.
A single, brutal jerk.
The sound was small. A dry snap, no louder than a branch underfoot. The man's body went slack and dropped to the stones, lifeless before he finished falling.
The grey-eyed man scrambled backward until his spine hit the wall, chest heaving.
"P-please," he stammered, hands raised. "Please, just tell me what you want. Anything."
Subaru crouched in front of him, his cold stare pinning the man in place like a nail through cloth. "Where's your boss?"
The man didn't hesitate this time. The words tumbled out of him in a rush, an address, a description, directions given twice over in his panic to get them right.
Subaru rose to his feet.
The grey-eyed man let out a shaking breath, some fragile hope creeping into his eyes. "C-consider this mercy? Please, just let me."
Subaru looked down at him for a long moment. "Yes," he said. "Consider it mercy."
The man's shoulders sagged with relief. "Th-thank."
The blade moved once.
His head struck the ground before his body understood it was already dead.
Subaru flicked the blood from his blade in a single motion, the drops scattering dark across the stone.
He let out a quiet sigh, then turned and walked away.
. . . . . .
Raphael hung from the iron chains, his body nothing but bruises, torn flesh, and searing pain. The metal had cut so deep into his wrists that he'd stopped feeling where skin ended and iron began, only the dull throb that never let up. Blood dripped from his fingertips, striking the cold stone in a slow, steady rhythm. His breath came ragged, each inhale dragging against ribs that screamed in protest. The air in the room sat thick in his lungs, heavy with the stink of sweat, old blood, and something rotting underneath it all. His head sagged forward, and for a moment the darkness at the edges of his vision felt almost inviting.
Then he heard it. Footsteps.
Slow. Unhurried. The kind of footsteps that belonged to a man who knew he had nowhere else to be.
Raphael forced his head up, every inch of the movement costing him. A shadow stretched across the floor before the man himself stepped into the dim light.
The boss.
That grin was already stretched across his face, the one that never seemed to reach his eyes. He stopped just short of arm's reach, close enough that Raphael could smell the alcohol on him. "Hope you weren't feeling too lonely in here," he said.
Raphael said nothing. He kept his eyes forward, fixed on a point somewhere past the man's shoulder.
The boss's smile faltered, just slightly. A flicker of annoyance passed over his face, there and gone. Then his leg swung.
The kick caught Raphael square in the stomach, and his body jolted against the chains, the links biting deeper into his wrists.
"Aaaagh!" The sound tore out of him before he could stop it, raw and involuntary.
Another kick followed, harder this time, aimed at his ribs. Something inside gave way with a dull crack.
Raphael clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ached, but the pain still found its way through. His whole body shook, sweat running down to mix with the blood already drying on his skin.
The boss laughed, delighted. "I was talking to you, Raphael! Talk to me! Say something!"
Another kick, worse than the last, sent Raphael swinging in the chains. The iron scraped fresh wounds into his wrists with every movement. He bit down hard enough to keep the scream trapped behind his teeth, though a strangled gasp still escaped.
The boss reached out and grabbed a fistful of his fur, wrenching his head up so their eyes met. His fingers twisted, tearing strands loose from the scalp.
"You're going to suffer," he whispered, his breath rank with alcohol and something worse. "I'm going to break you slowly. And when I'm done, your sister's head is going to sit right here. Right next to yours."
Something inside Raphael snapped.
His muscles locked, every bit of exhaustion burned away by a rage that came from somewhere deeper than pain. He lunged forward, teeth bared, aiming for the man's throat, for his face, for anything he could reach.
The boss stepped back just in time, laughing as he released his grip. "Feisty! I like that."
Raphael snarled, chest heaving with furious breath. He pulled against the chains, the metal rattling violently, tearing further into skin already raw. He didn't care anymore. If his arms had to come apart at the shoulder to reach this man, he'd let them.
"I will kill you," he snarled, voice scraped raw. "I'll kill you and every last man who follows you."
The boss's grin widened, his eyes bright with something twisted and eager. "Yes. Yes, that's exactly what I want to hear." Then his fist shot forward.
It slammed into Raphael's ribs, and pain exploded white across his vision.
"GHHAAHH!"
Before he could even draw breath, another blow landed, this one to his jaw. His head snapped sideways, skull cracking against the stone wall behind him. The room spun. Blood, warm and thick, ran down from somewhere above his temple, mixing with sweat and grime on his face. His breathing turned shallow, his whole body trembling now, beyond his control.
The boss stepped back, admiring the damage he'd done. He drew his boot back for another kick.
Then, from outside the room, came a commotion.
Footsteps, fast and heavy, followed by a man bursting through the doorway, chest heaving, his face pale with fear. "Boss!"
The boss turned, irritation flashing across his features. "What is it?"
"There's." The man struggled to catch his breath. "There's an intruder."
The boss scoffed, waving a hand. "So let Angelo handle it. That's what I pay him for."
The messenger hesitated, his throat working as he swallowed. When he finally spoke, his voice came out barely above a whisper. "Boss. Angelo's dead."
The room went still.
A dark, creeping fury settled over the boss's face. His fingers curled into a fist, and before the messenger could react, that fist connected with his nose.
"You incompetent piece of shit! You're telling me none of you could handle one person?!"
Raphael barely registered the shouting anymore. His head dropped forward, his body sagging fully into the chains. The pain had grown too large to hold, and his mind began slipping away from him, piece by piece.
His sister's face rose up in his thoughts. Bright eyes. That smile she always gave him, the one that didn't know yet what kind of world she'd been born into.
I'm sorry, Lily, he thought, the words sinking through him like stones. I should have protected you.
A tear cut through the blood on his cheek.
Then everything went dark.
Shadows of the Past
The chains rattled with every step, a dull, endless clinking that never seemed to stop. The prisoners moved in silence, their bodies too weak, their legs barely able to carry them forward. Some stumbled, caught only by the pull of the metal binding them to the others.
The knights walked alongside them, indifferent to the suffering at their feet. A few laughed among themselves. Others cracked their whips without warning, the sound splitting through the quiet of the trees like something breaking.
One knight on horseback pulled hard on his reins, bringing the group to a halt. "We stop here for the night," he called out, his voice carrying an authority that left no room for argument.
"But sir, we're behind schedule already."
"Look at them." He gestured toward the prisoners, his tone sharpening. "They won't survive until morning if we keep pushing. We stop. That's final."
Orders passed down the line. Tents went up. A fire was lit, and soon the knights had settled around it, drinking, their laughter mixing uneasily with the quiet whimpers coming from the prisoners nearby.
Inside the largest tent, the air hung heavy with exhaustion and hunger. The prisoners sat huddled close, too drained even to speak, their stomachs hollow and aching.
The tent flap rustled, and a young knight stepped inside, carrying two loaves of bread against his chest. His hands trembled slightly as he held them out.
"Here." His voice came soft, almost embarrassed. "This is your food for tonight."
A small boy rose from among the huddled prisoners. His beast ears twitched at the sound, catching every small movement in the tent, and his eyes caught the firelight in a way that wasn't quite human.
"Raphael, sit back down," an older man whispered, urgency cutting through his exhaustion.
Raphael didn't listen. He stepped forward instead, staring up at the knight without a trace of fear.
The knight hesitated, looking down at the boy for a long moment before letting out a quiet sigh. He held out the bread. "Share it among yourselves. I'm sorry, I know it's not enough for everyone."
A voice called from somewhere outside the tent, and the knight flinched at the sound.
"Coming, sir!" he called back, then turned and slipped through the flap, leaving them alone again.
For a moment, the tent held only silence.
Then, from the corner, a voice broke it.
"Hey, brat."
The voice was low and ugly, thick with hunger and resentment. A heavyset man sat there, his eyes locked hungrily on the bread in Raphael's hands.
"Hand it over."
Raphael's grip tightened around the loaves, but he said nothing.
"The children need this more than you do," the older man said, his voice calm but carrying an edge that dared the other man to argue.
The heavyset man scoffed. "And I don't? I'm starving same as the rest of you."
A woman's voice cut through the tent, sharp with bitterness. "Why should beast brats eat before the rest of us?"
Murmurs rippled through the huddled prisoners, some nodding, others too tired to care either way.
The heavyset man pushed himself up, hand already reaching. "I said give it."
Raphael moved before anyone could stop him.
His teeth sank into the man's hand, hard enough to draw blood.
"AAAAAGHHHHH! YOU LITTLE SHIT!"
Blood dripped from Raphael's mouth as the man staggered back, clutching his torn fingers against his chest, cursing under his breath.
The tent flap tore open, and a knight stormed in, his expression already dark. "What in the hell is going on in here?!"
The heavyset man thrust a shaking finger toward Raphael. "That little bastard bit me!"
The knight's eyes moved between them, weighing the scene. Whatever he saw settled something cold behind his expression. "Shut your mouths. All of you. If I hear so much as another word tonight, someone in this tent is going to die. Are we clear?"
No one answered. No one needed to.
The knight turned on his heel and left, letting the tent flap fall shut behind him.
The heavyset man glared at Raphael, taking one step closer before another voice stopped him cold.
"Let it go," a different prisoner said, his voice steady despite everything. "The old man's right. Let the children eat first."
The heavyset man's fists clenched at his sides. For a moment it looked like he might push further. Then he stepped back instead, muttering curses under his breath as he sank back into his corner.
Raphael said nothing through any of it. He knelt down and tore the bread into small pieces, handing them out to the younger children first. Small hands, trembling from cold and hunger, took the pieces one by one. Mothers wiped dirt and tears from their children's faces, whispering quiet thanks that barely carried across the tent.
Raphael didn't eat.
He watched instead, silent, until the last piece was gone.