"I AM A FILTHY ROACH"
The words echoed in the alley like the scrape of metal on stone.
Dylan flinched.
He had faced many things in Luxia—hunger, cruelty, death itself.
But he had never heard someone renounce their humanity with such clarity.
Name stepped forward.
He reached into Dylan's coat pocket and pulled out a small coin pouch.
"Take all the money you want. Just please… leave me alone."
Dylan's voice was barely a whisper now. Broken. Pleading.
"A porter earns ten silver coins on his best day," Name said quietly.
"You're a supervisor. Your salary's better, sure—but that doesn't explain why you have thirty-five gold coins in your pocket."
Dylan turned pale.
Name stared at him, cold and unblinking.
"The last shipment was a good one, wasn't it? Was it drugs? Organs? Or maybe humans?"
Dylan twitched—tried to run—but his body no longer listened to him.
"How do you know about that? Who… who are you?" Dylan asked, voice trembling.
Name didn't answer. He didn't need to. He knew Dylan better than anyone else.
Name didn't expect Dylan to keep up his act after all this.
Name had seen what Dylan shipped in crates too small for cargo, heard the screams from behind the steel doors, watched the coins change hands like it was just another business deal. He may have some murder history too.
He wore a righteous face in public—but behind closed doors, he was the monster pulling Luxia's strings.
Luxia is a cursed city. So things like drug, terrorism, murder wasn't uncommon there. Even slave trade, illegal research, underage prostitution were present in Luxia.
Dylan was the host of all those activities.
And Name knew.
Because he had worked for Dylan.
Their first meeting was when Name was four.
Three years ago, they met again—when Name sold his own kidney.
And up until just a few days ago, he had been one of Dylan's many disposable tools.
So when Dylan approached him that morning—pretending not to know him—Name understood.
Dylan wasn't offering him help.
He was silencing loose ends. Death was waiting for him. Painful death.
A public scene would draw attention. So Name had handed him the money to enrage him. Dylan had no choice but to walk away.
That gave Name time.
And now, he was using that time.
"I brought the rope!"
The sudden voice broke the silence of the alley.
The little girl from before appeared at the alley's mouth, holding a frayed rope in her tiny hands.
"Isn't that Mr. Dylan?" she asked, confused.
"Why is he lying on the ground?"
"You know him?" Name asked, not turning.
"Yes. My mom told me I should grow up to be kind like him. She says he's the Angel of Luxia."
Name didn't reply. He crouched beside Dylan and began to bind his wrists and ankles with the rope.
Then he looked at the girl and said:
"Remember this, girl…
Angels don't exist in hell."
She didn't fully understand. But something in his voice etched the words deep into her mind.
What are you going to do with me?" Dylan whimpered.
"I run this city! You still have time—let me go, and I'll forgive you! Even if you kill me, you won't escape Luxia!"
His words were meant to be a threat—but his trembling voice turned them into a plea.
Name didn't answer.
He stuffed a rag into Dylan's mouth, silencing him.
Now Dylan stared up, helpless.
And standing above him was the figure of Name—cold, motionless, terrifying.
But it wasn't his posture or voice that scared Dylan the most.
It was his eyes.
There was no flame in them. No rage. No sorrow.
Only a dead glance, still blue—like the color of a frozen sea.
They weren't the eyes of a boy.They were the eyes of something long buried beneath the earth.
A ghost.
A curse.
Or maybe death itself.
Dylan was praying the boy in front of him would be kind enough to spare his life.
But what he didn't know was that concepts like kindness, mercy, and sympathy were completely foreign to Name. His judgment relied solely on cold, brutal logic.
Name already had his escape plan ready.
In twenty minutes, a train called K-07 would reach the station and inside that train is a hidden room called the Slave Room.
It's the middle of the month. There's no shipment scheduled today, which means the Slave Room will be empty. Unguarded. All Name had to do is slip in, and he would be gone. Out of Luxia. No one will even know.
Name didn't truly believe it would go smoothly. There was always a chance Dylan's people would check the slave room after realizing he was missing.
That's why he would take the girl with him.
He wasn't taking her out of sympathy. He couldn't feel sadness for others...not anymore.
If he got caught, she would be his bargaining chip. His escape ticket. A child like her would fetch a high price...far more valuable than a crippled, dying boy like him. If caught, he would trade the girl to Dylan's men in exchange for a way out of Luxia.
Name looked down at Dylan, who was trying desperately to speak. He pulled the rag from Dylan's mouth.
"Please," Dylan gasped. "Let me go. I have a daughter… a wife. They have no one else. If I die… the dogs of Luxia will tear them apart."
Name already knew Dylan had a child...but it was a boy. Something wasn't adding up. Maybe Dylan was losing his grip out of fear.
But he dismissed it. He believed fear made people lie.
But how very wrong Name was. He had no way to know that things were more fatal than fear.
"I never believed in things like karma or justice," Name said, "but a few years ago… something changed my mind. Maybe people really do get what they deserve. If so...your wife and daughter will get what's coming to them."
As he leaned in to replace the rag, Dylan shouted, voice shaking with grief and rage:
"What sin did my daughter commit?"
Name met his gaze with a flat, lifeless stare. His glowing blue eye flickered in the shadows.
"Having a father like you is sin enough for death."
Name's words struck Dylan with a force stronger than any blade. All he could do was stare, his eyes wide, his chest heaving in desperation.
Name turned to the girl. Her small frame trembled violently, her eyes glassy with confusion and dread.
"The path ahead of you will be hell," he said, voice cold and detached. "There won't be any angels. The faster you understand your reality, the better your chances of survival. I'm going to kill this man now. I won't ask you to watch. You're free to close your eyes. But someday… when you have to kill someone, don't hesitate."
The girl didn't respond. She was curled up in a ball, her back against the wall, arms hugging her knees. Terror gripped every inch of her body. As Name approached Dylan, she squeezed her eyes shut and jammed her fingers deep into her ears, as if she could shut out the nightmare by sheer force of will. But she couldn't stop the trembling. Her mind, young and fragile, tried to make sense of the horror, but all she could feel was the pressure of panic crushing her chest, making it hard to breathe.
Dylan, gagged again, shook his head frantically as Name stepped in front of him. His muffled screams filled the narrow alley. He tried to plead with his eyes...plead for his daughter, for the chance to see another sunrise. Every cell in his body screamed for survival. He clawed at the ground, at Name's arms, desperate to escape the hands wrapped tightly around his throat. His face turned a sickly shade of red, then purple. His legs kicked weakly against the dirt.
But Name's expression remained empty. His dead blue eyes watched Dylan's fading life without a flicker of empathy. There was no rage, no pleasure...just purpose. When Dylan finally stopped moving, his body slumped to the side like a discarded doll.
Name stood up, adjusting his breath, and walked toward the girl. She was still sitting on the ground, her eyes shut tight, fingers pressed hard against her ears.
"Stand up. We have to go," he said flatly.
But before the girl could move, a voice echoed through the alley.
"Still killing people, huh?"
Name turned, quickly scanning the shadows.
"Who are you?" Name asked.
A figure stood at the alley's edge, his face hidden by the dark. But then, with a casual flick of his fingers, a red flame sparked to life at his fingertip. It danced like a living thing...small, yet vibrant and powerful...casting a red glow that chased away the gloom.
"You can't recognize me? And I thought we were best friends," the figure said.
In the flickering light, Name could finally see him. He was young, perhaps only a little older than Name, but with an aura of control and confidence that made him feel much older. His silver hair shimmered under the flame, swept back messily yet intentionally, with a single long strand that curved forward over one eye. His earring caught the light...an intricate black-and-silver spiral in the shape of a serpent devouring its tail, with a tiny red gemstone embedded in the center, glowing faintly as if alive.
His clothing was like nothing Name had seen in Luxia. He wore a long dark coat made of layered fabric, stitched together with glowing silver threads in geometric patterns. The coat's high collar framed his neck and face, and metallic clasps ran down the side like vertebrae. Underneath, a tight black shirt pulsed faintly with moving symbols, like circuitry or veins, and his boots were sleek, with reinforced soles that glinted with sharp edges.
Name stared at him, silent, his fists clenched.
"Hey, drop that cold act. I'm here to take you back."
The boy's voice was cheerful, almost too cheerful.
Name's mind raced.
Is he one of Dylan's men? Is he here to kill me? Can I even survive against someone like him?
Within seconds, Name reached his conclusion.
He turned around and sprinted down the alley, pushing his body beyond its limits.
But in an instant, the boy appeared in front of him...blocking the alley's mouth as if he'd teleported.
Still, Name didn't stop. He lowered his shoulder and charged forward, hoping momentum might be enough to knock him down.
Instead, his body hit something invisible...and bounced off violently, crashing to the ground.
It's like I slammed into a wall of air…
Pain exploded through his starved, fragile frame. He didn't try to stand. There was no point.
"Are you going to kill me?" Name asked.
"Kill you?" the boy replied, confused. "Why would I do that? And why are you running from me?"
His voice was soft now. "You look so thin… what happened to you?"
Name closed his eyes. At least he wasn't going to die.
"I don't know who you are, mister. I have a train to catch. Let me go."
The boy stepped closer.
"Where are you going?"
"Out of this cursed place," Name muttered.
The boy's face changed.
"I came to take you back to Aarin. You've been gone for six months. The Zenith is dead. We had no idea what happened to you...until now."
The words meant nothing to Name.
Zenith? Aarin? What was he talking about?
"You've got the wrong person," Name said flatly. "I don't know you. I don't know what a Zenith is, or Aarin. I need to go."
He tried to push himself up.
But then the boy hugged him tightly.
"I'm sorry… If I'd been there that night, none of this would've happened…"
The boy's voice trembled. He was crying.
Name struggled to break free, the strength gap between them was too great.
"Hey! I'm getting late," Name snapped. "If you want to talk, then say something that makes sense to me!"
The boy let Name go and looked into his face with tearful eyes.
"You don't recognize me because you've lost your memory."
"What?" Name snapped, staring at him like he'd just grown two heads. He wasn't sure if the boy was mentally unstable or trying to mess with him.
"Aarin is the village where you used to live. I'm from there too. We call our village chief the Zenith. Six months ago, a terrible incident occurred...many people died, including the Zenith... and you disappeared. We thought you were dead. But today, we found out you were alive, living here. So, I came to bring you home," the boy explained, his voice trembling with sincerity.
Name stood speechless, blankly staring at him.
The boy could see the confusion painted across his face.
"I know it's hard to believe. I don't know what happened to you in these six months... but I swear everything I said is true."
Name blinked slowly. "Are you sure you're not mistaking me for someone else?"
The boy chuckled gently. "I've known you for years. And come on...how many people do you think are actually named Name?"
Name glanced toward the alley. The little girl was still sitting there, silently watching Dylan's corpse with wide, unblinking eyes.
"Did you come here by train?" Name asked suddenly.
The boy seemed surprised. "No. I had... other means of transportation."
"I just killed a man," Name said. "Can you get me out of here without being caught?"
"That'll be a piece of cake," the boy replied with a reassuring smile.
"Then let's go," Name said.
The boy gave him a puzzled look...then, without warning, hugged him again.
"I thought convincing you would be so much harder," he whispered. "Maybe, even if you lost your memories, our bond still reached you somehow."
"Can I bring this girl with me?" Name asked, nodding toward her.
The boy looked at her with a shadow of concern in his eyes. "Our village is... special. Outsiders aren't usually welcomed."
Then he smiled faintly. "But if you want to bring her, no one will stop you. I'll talk to them on your behalf."
"I see. Let's go then," Name replied, his voice flat.
He glanced down at his hands...rough, calloused, scarred. These weren't wounds that could form in six months. The memories in his head and the wounds in his body reassured him that there was no connection between him and Aarin. Even Dylan's corpse seemed like a cruel reminder that something wasn't right.
But Name chose to go with the boy anyway.
Staying in Luxia was suicide. Once Dylan's body was found, his men would tear the city apart looking for the killer. Trying to escape by train wasn't safe either. And after that crash into the invisible wall, Name could barely stand. He was starving, drained. He wouldn't make it to the station.
But the boy… he had powers. Tricks Name had never seen before. Magic. And if there was even a small chance to survive, Name had to take it.
He didn't understand how the boy knew his name...or why he was so certain they shared a past. But he knew one thing: this boy was his only way out.
The boy reached into his coat and drew out a small, silver sphere...smooth, shining faintly in the dim alley light. Without hesitation, he crushed it in his palm.
A soft hiss escaped the metal.
Then, flame ignited.
Not orange, not red...but violet.
It bloomed from his hand like a living thing, curling in smoky tendrils, sparkling like starlight. The fire shimmered and flowed as if it obeyed no wind, only will. It pulsed, softly and steadily, like the heartbeat of some ancient, forgotten beast.
The air changed.
Reality bent.
The walls of the alley wavered like heat mirages, and even the shadows seemed to lean inward, pulled by something unseen. The violet flame coiled upward, twisting gracefully in midair. Then it began to spin...gathering speed, forming a spiral that glowed brighter and brighter with each rotation.
A gust of wind swept through the alley, carrying a scent Name didn't recognize...lavender and lightning.
The flame deepened in color as it spun, and from the alley's darkest corners, blue light joined the spiral, dancing along the edges like celestial ink. The swirl expanded, its base forming glowing patterns across the ground...sigils and symbols in a language Name couldn't read.
The little girl's terror was momentarily replaced by awe.
Name, still crouched in pain, could only stare.
He'd seen death. Steel. Blood. Suffering.
But this?
This was something else entirely.
Name gave one last glance at Dylan's lifeless body.
There was no hatred in his eyes. No anger. No satisfaction.
Just emptiness.
He stared at the corpse the way one might look at a broken tool...useless, discarded, forgotten.
The little girl was still sitting against the wall, her hands no longer pressed to her ears, her wide eyes dull with exhaustion. The fear had numbed her senses. She didn't flinch when Name approached.
He knelt down and lifted her into his arms. Her body was light...frighteningly light. She didn't resist. Didn't speak. She simply let herself be carried, like a doll worn down by too many cruel games.
Name rose slowly, careful not to stagger. The pain in his ribs screamed with every breath, but he kept moving.
He didn't look back.
Not at Dylan.
Not at the blood on the ground.
Not at the dying light of Luxia, where smokestacks choked the sky and every street reeked of despair.
No regret. No sadness. No relief.
Just forward.
As the spiral of violet flame twisted faster, brighter, and began to pull the air inward, Name stepped into it without hesitation, the girl resting silently in his arms.
The world behind him began to fade...burned away by violet fire and unspoken memories.
Ahead of him was a village he had no memory of. A boy who claimed to know him. A name that didn't feel like his own.
Aarin.
He didn't know what waited for him there. He didn't know if it was truly a home… or just another cage painted in prettier colors.
Maybe what lay ahead would be peace.
Maybe it would be something worse than Luxia...worse than death.
But Name didn't care.
He didn't fear the unknown.
Because to a boy who had lived through hell…
…another one didn't matter.