The view outside.
It was... it was normal.
Walls faded into grey beneath the weak moonlight, paint peeling, shadows stretching like old scars across the concrete. A faint rumble of passing vehicles drifted from the main road — too far to matter, too near to ignore.
Paul stepped out, the metal door shutting behind him with a soft groan. The night air hit his skin — damp, cold, familiar. His eyes adjusted quick, tracing the outline of the street. Nothing unusual. Nothing out of place.
Then he turned left.
He froze for half a second. He saw it — or thought he did. A flicker of motion at the corner of his vision. A shape turning the corner. He swore he saw it. He wasn't late.
He let go of the door and started moving, slow at first, then faster — a silent sprint, feet brushing against gravel, each step measured.
The alley stretched ahead, narrow and tired. Trash bins overflowed with rotten food and crumpled cartons. The smell was sharp, thick, clinging to his breath. Water trickled from a leaking pipe, dripping steady against the ground. A stray cat bolted across, startled by his shadow.
Paul slowed his pace near the turn. His breathing evened out — not heavy, just careful. The kind of breathing you do when you want to hear everything else.
He tilted his head slightly. Nothing. No footsteps. No voices. Just the faint hum of the city living somewhere beyond these walls.
He took one more step and turned the corner.
The alley swallowed him whole.
Then disappeared. Vanished.
And for a moment, everything else stopped.
The night, the hum, the drip of water—it all felt like the world had forgotten what came next.
Like the story itself had lost its lines.
No direction, no dialogue.
Just a blank space waiting to remember what happens after the darkness swallows a man whole.
The first thing to fall was a piece of black cloth.
It fluttered out of the alley, slow and aimless, before landing in the dirt near the trash bins. A hoodie. Paul's hoodie.
Then came the sound.
A sharp, guttural cry that tore through the quiet like something being split open. It wasn't long before footsteps followed, heavy and fast. Someone was running.
From the dark mouth of the alley, a man appeared. Big. Bald. The kind of man whose shadow arrived before he did. His shoulders were thick, his arms thicker, veins raised under the skin. He looked like he belonged to the club's backroom, the type who breaks bones for pocket change and doesn't remember faces.
He had Paul by the collar.
The smaller man's feet were barely touching the ground.
The giant didn't slow down. He charged forward and slammed Paul into the wall with a sound that cracked through the night. A trash bin toppled beside them, spilling half-rotten food and empty bottles.
The shock hit hard. Paul's back screamed, the air punched out of his lungs. For a second, his body didn't know how to move. It felt like the strings had been cut, like the puppeteer forgot the show wasn't over.
He slid down the wall, one hand gripping the concrete. His chest heaved, pulling in dust and sour air.
The man stood over him, breathing heavy. "Who the hell are you?" His voice came low and thick, the kind that left no room for lies.
Paul looked up. His eyes met the man's but said nothing. Only his breathing shifted, a shallow inhale followed by a faint smirk that barely moved his face.
The man frowned. "Think this funny?"
His boot came up fast. Paul rolled, and the heel smashed against the wall instead. Dust rained down. Paul kicked out once, aiming low at the man's shin. The hit landed, but the man barely flinched.
The second kick came harder, angled higher, but it only made the giant stumble half a step. He looked down, more annoyed than hurt.
"Stay down," he growled.
Paul didn't listen. He pushed up from the ground, elbows shaking, balance off. The man's shadow swallowed him again. Then the foot came down once more, a blur through the air.
This time Paul barely dodged. The sole skimmed his ribs, cutting through fabric. The impact still hurt, the air burning in his chest.
He coughed once, gripping the floor. His mind told him to move. His body disagreed. The threads still hadn't tightened.
The man took a step closer, ready to stomp again, when his foot stopped midair. His leg shook. Paul's hands had locked around his ankle, fingers digging deep. The man tried to force it down, but Paul's grip held. His knuckles turned pale, muscles twitching under the strain.
For a second, it looked like a standoff between weight and will.
Then the weight lost.
The man stumbled back, caught off balance. Paul kicked free and crawled toward the scattered hoodie, grabbing it with one hand. He didn't look back.
"Bastard," the man spat, regaining his footing.
Paul turned. His eyes were glassy, not empty but far away. The hood slipped from his fingers. It hung loose, then he tossed it straight at the man's face.
The big one caught it instinctively, hand half-covering his eyes. Paul was already moving. His foot hit the ground once, twice, then a third time harder — building rhythm like a dancer who remembered his steps.
His kick drove into the man's abdomen. A sharp sound escaped from the giant's throat. Paul followed with a punch to the jaw, quick, clean, precise.
It worked. For a second.
The next hit didn't land. The man's arm came up like a wall, catching Paul's wrist mid-swing. Their eyes met again, but this time there was no distance in them. The man twisted Paul's arm sideways.
The pain flared bright and raw. Paul's breath broke. Before he could wrench free, the man yanked him forward and cracked his forehead against Paul's skull.
The world pulsed white.
Then red.
Then nothing.
For three seconds, there was no sound. The alley fell silent except for the ringing in his head.
When the world came back, Paul felt himself hanging. His arm locked. His legs dragging. The smell of blood—his blood—dripped warm against the cold air.
The man threw him against the wall again. The sound this time was duller. Thicker.
Paul's body hit hard and bounced back, falling limp to the ground. He lay there, chest barely moving, the rhythm of breath uneven. The puppet's strings trembled but didn't snap.
"Who sent you?" The man grabbed his collar again, dragging him up. His spit hit Paul's cheek as he shouted. "Who the hell sent you here?"
Paul's head tilted weakly. His lips moved but nothing came out.
"Answer me!"
The man threw him sideways. Paul's shoulder slammed into the cold brick, pain crackling like electricity. Then again, the other wall. The sound echoed down the alley — hit, grunt, hit again.
Paul didn't scream. Just breathed. Just waited.
When the body hit the ground, the giant took a step back. His breath came rough now, heavy with frustration. He wiped the blood from his lip and glared down.
The body on the ground looked broken. Maybe it was.
Paul's hand twitched. His fingers dragged against the pavement. He pushed, barely. His chest rose and fell once more, shallow but steady.
He heard the voice again. "You're good," the man said, half-laughing, half-tired. "I give you that."
Good. Paul wanted to laugh, but it came out as a ragged breath.
The man stepped closer, looming over him. "You're still young. Tell me who sent you and maybe I let you off."
Paul didn't answer. Didn't even blink.
"Fine." The man lifted his arm, pulled back for another hit. His fist landed across Paul's face. The crack echoed.
Then again.
Nothing.
The lack of reaction seemed to unnerve him more than any scream could have. The man scowled. He let go, disgusted. "You're done."
His next punch swung wide.
Paul slipped sideways.
The fist smashed into brick instead. A spiderweb crack spread from the impact.
Paul spat blood into the man's eyes. The hit wasn't hard, but it worked. The man reeled back, swearing. Paul's knee came up fast, catching his ribs.
The grunt that followed was real.
Paul stepped in close, head low, body tight. His fist found the man's temple. The bald skull turned just slightly. Not enough.
Paul hit again. Then he grabbed the man's head with both hands and drove his knee into it.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
The thud of bone meeting bone filled the alley.
The man dropped to one knee, dizzy. Paul slipped behind him, hooked a leg, and kicked at the back of his knee. The bigger man's face hit the wall.
Paul didn't stop.
He kicked again.
And again.
The body jerked each time, heavy, resistant. Paul's breathing grew harsher. The pain in his ribs answered back with each movement.
He raised his foot again.
This time the leg didn't move.
Then—
The man's hand had caught his ankle.
Paul tried to pull back. Nothing.
In one motion, the man twisted and yanked. Paul hit the ground hard, the air ripped out of him again. The cold bit through his shirt, sweat and dirt sticking to his skin.
He didn't move for a moment. Just stared at the dark sky above the alley, blinking the blur away.
Why am I taking this long? he wondered, silent. Maybe he had gone soft. Maybe he was out of rhythm. Maybe he just didn't care enough anymore.
He turned his head. The man was already standing again, breathing like a bull.
Paul's eyes drifted toward the wall. His hoodie hung from the man's hand now. The same one Paul had thrown earlier.
The big one grinned. "Nice trick."
Paul's mouth twitched. "You can keep it."
They moved at the same time.
The man threw the hoodie first, wide and fast. It caught the air like a black curtain, cutting Paul's vision.
He ducked low, sliding under it. But the kick came through the fabric. It hit his ribs clean, folding him halfway.
He staggered. The man's arms wrapped around him, lifting him off the ground. "Enough," he said.
Then the throw.
The world spun once before the wall stopped it. Metal shuddered behind him. His head snapped back.
Paul lifted himself to his knees, coughing, each breath scraping raw. The air felt colder now. The alley felt longer.
He wiped his mouth. His hand came away red.
He looked up slowly. The man was still there, chest rising and falling, barely touched.
Paul's lips parted, the faintest curve of a smile forming.
He straightened. The pain was still there, gnawing, constant. But it didn't matter. His eyes were empty enough that nothing reflected in them.
He bent slightly, reaching down toward his ankle. Fingers brushed against cold steel.
When he rose again, the blade glinted against the dull light.
The air seemed to pause.
Then he turned his head, slow and deliberate, toward the right side of the alley — where another presence lingered unseen, watching.
His voice came quiet but steady. "You're finally here."
A faint smile followed, small, weightless. "Thought you'd miss this time too."
The knife danced once in his hand, catching what little light was left.
Then stillness.
And the night held its breath.