"Cold winds strip the world bare —
Leaving only what cannot be shaken."
—Niloy
THUNDER—
"June..."
"It's June..."
Downpour fell in silver sheets, a bite that cut to bone. Teeth chattered; every step sank deep into mud, boots dragging like fetters.
"Raining... too cold..." His breath rattled, lips trembling, voice fragmenting and lost in the storm.
The alley narrowed, walls weeping rain, shutters shivering with thunder. He curled inward, arms clasped over ribs as if to hold them from splintering. Each stagger answered with the sucking, wet sound of mud clinging to his heels.
"I... already walked this far..." His lips, raw and cracked, quivered. "...there is no way back."
"No shop... no light..."
A voice—rasped, swallowed by the gale—cut through:
"Niloy."
Lightning split the sky. For a heartbeat, his face flashed pale as frost; his eyes flared, black and glossy with terror. The chest heaved too fast, breath scattering into the rain. "Ugh..." His fists ground into his sides.
Wind hurled detritus at his ankles, snapping his soaked shirt against his skin. The thin fabric clung, plastering to the ridges of bone and muscle, exposing every frailty he tried to hide. Each inhale came raw and torn. "Too cold..."
Nineteen—still a boy in years, but not in the weight he carried. His limbs shook with every exhale; his shape, all sinew and shadow, gleamed under the harsh sky like something carved from stormlight.
"...don't know if I'll ever see the sun again."
"Need... warmth... dryness..." his throat bobbed.
Lightning spilled once more. He stumbled; his knees nearly gave. "Uhh—" A breath too faint for speech.
Rain carved rivulets down his face, streaming from black brows as though the heavens themselves wept for him. Hollow cheeks cut into the lightning's flash; eyes deep and restless as floodwater, full of dread yet edged with defiance. He scanned each shifting shade and every motion blurred by rain with taut vigilance.
Then he felt something heavier than the downpour: a presence. Vast. Icy. Unrelenting.
"Niloy..." The voice snagged in his chest.
"You shouldn't be here."
The ribs tightened. Fingers curled until the nails bit skin. I cannot fall apart. Whatever waits—I'll survive.
"Come on... Niloy," he rasped to himself, teeth clattering, arms wrapped tight. "You can endure. You must."
A fragile whisper clung to cracked lips, thin as glass yet refusing to break: "Keep believing..."
Then—movement.
A figure tore from the rain. Too swift. Too silent.
Before recoil was possible, iron fingers closed on his arm, a grip like a vice. Breath was ripped from him—half gasp, half cry—as he was flung off balance, boots skidding on slick stone.
The alley swallowed him. Light punctured away. Noise blurred to nothing.
He thrashed. "Let me go!"
"Goo... go..."
The man did not loosen his hold. A grin—slow, cruel—split his face.
"Mn... little bitch," he rasped, voice raw with appetite. "Golden skin... I'd wager your flesh tastes sweeter."
Impact.
Niloy slammed into the ground. Air left his lungs. Mud spattered upward, filthy and cold, while his back collided with stone. Thunder rent the sky, but its roar reached him distant and muffled.
The attacker descended like a shadow, weight absolute and crushing.
One hand seized both wrists and slammed them above his head; bones ground against pavement. The other hand slid lower—slow, invasive—searing through drenched cloth. Fetid breath pressed to his skin; the stench of rust and smoke seeped into him.
Then—wet.
A coarse tongue traced an obscene path along his cheek, jaw to temple, leaving heat that burned worse than flame.
Niloy convulsed; bile rose, acrid and coppery. His limbs trembled, offered like prey under that immovable burden.
"Gold..." the man breathed. "Soft. Warm. I wonder how quickly you'll shatter when I split you open."
Pain came next.
Teeth sank into the side of his neck—sharp, brutal, deep enough to bruise. He gasped; his body bucked. Legs kicked, searching for purchase, but nowhere to go.
"After I'm done," the man muttered, low and threatening, "maybe I'll let you crawl away. Don't scream. It won't help."
He yanked Niloy's jaw upward and forced his face toward the predator.
"No—"
Niloy gagged, twisted, tried to cry out, but the storm devoured sound. Blood coated his tongue, hot and metallic.
The man moaned, guttural, as if drinking panic. His hips ground forward in a perverse rhythm against Niloy's sodden thighs. Cold fingers slid beneath the t-shirt, probing the tender ridges like a hand mapping fracture lines.
"Helppp..."
"He... help..."
No answer came.
Niloy flailed. Boots skidded. Nails clawed at the man's face; skin gave. The attacker hissed but held firm, the mass above him suffocating and merciless.
Then—his fingers closed on something solid.
Stone. Rough. Cold.
Instinct sparked. Niloy brought it down.
'Eek!'
The crack split the storm; the man's cry tore like thunder. He staggered, hands clapped to a bleeding head, slipping in the mud, cursing.
Niloy's body screamed as he twisted free. He scrambled up, clothes sodden and torn, neck burning, skin streaked with mud and blood.
He did not look back.
A howl of fury followed, raw and animal.
Niloy ran. Heart hammering, lungs tearing, eyes wild.
Out of the alley. Into the night.
The Ping spread slowly and wide, silvered beneath the rain, as if the sky itself had fallen and bled into the river.
There, pacing along the bank, walked another figure.
Tall. Alone.
He moved as if rain could not claim him—languid, fluid, like bone lit from within. From behind, he was restrained danger: low-slung jeans clung to his hips, soaked to skin; a white shirt so drenched it had gone translucent.
"Wait..."
"Help..."
Rain battered them, yet he strode like he was born of the storm.
Niloy—mud-smeared, breathless, bleeding—stood frozen.
Something in him whispered: "This is not the end."
With cheekbones cut by rain and lips bitten raw, Niloy cried, ragged, "Stranger!"
"Stranger!"
"Stop..."
The cry sliced the rain, but the figure ahead did not turn. Black hair clung to the nape of his neck; a jawline like a blade. He walked without hurry, but there was a cold in him that warned of danger.
He was only meters away, yet seemed a mirage. Wind tore at the sky; rain lashed like needles. Niloy's urgency filled his steps and trembling limbs. His voice cracked from screaming, but he kept calling.
"Stranger—! Stranger... stranger...
"Help... please—help!"
The figure continued as if hearing nothing—as if the world's suffering no longer mattered to him.
Desperation swelled in Niloy like a dam bursting. He ran—driven by something beneath reason, a force older than speech. Bare feet splashed through the waterlogged bank; trembling fingers clutched the stranger's shoulder.
At that instant, the scoundrel behind him howled, a wounded beast. One glimpse of the newcomer's frame and the creature vanished into darkness.
"I'll find you again, you golden whore!"
Niloy slowly turned his head.
The man disappeared. Niloy and the stranger remained, eyes locked.
Silence—so loud it rang. The wind lifted the hem of the stranger's shirt, revealing glimpses of pale, flushed skin like wet porcelain.
They stood at the river's lip; the water was black and swollen beneath the storm. Rain did not fall; it slashed, stinging their skin.
Niloy looked up. In those dark, piercing eyes, he found no warmth—only a furious, solitary chill, as if the man had carved himself hollow and set his heart under ice. Yet the stranger also saw Niloy: wide, trembling, innocent and terrified, a deer caught in a hunter's shadow.
The moment ruptured.
The stranger moved—sharp, sudden.
He shoved Niloy.
Maybe to break the touch. Maybe he had misjudged his place. Niloy teetered at the edge; his heels grazed water. He staggered back and, blindly, clutched the stranger's collar.
They fell.
The world tipped; sky and river traded places. Black water swallowed them.
Niloy did not scream. Cold filled his mouth before sound could form. He flailed, chest seizing; he could not swim.
The current seized him, dragging him down.
Limbs thrashed for nothing—only the river's black throat.
Then—
An arm closed around his waist.
Through chaos, he hauled Niloy into a crushing hold—tight, uncompromising. Niloy clung as if to a lifeline; their wet bodies pressed so close there was no air between them.
Breath ripped from him, shallow and ragged. Skin pressed to skin; hearts collided, shivering from cold and shock, yet somehow alive. Through half-lidded eyes, he looked up.
The stranger's face hovered above, rain and river sliding down carved planes. He said nothing. His gaze would not leave Niloy's lashes as they fluttered closed. He held him.
The storm burned itself out. Dawn pressed a thin gold along the horizon, soft as a quiet promise. Dew clung to the grass like trembling jewels.
Niloy lay sprawled on the bank. The stranger knelt.
Dark hair plastered to his face, water beading and falling from his jaw onto Niloy's unmoving form. His chest rose in short, rigid pulls, yet his eyes remained sharp—cold, and watchful.
Niloy wasn't breathing.
Rain-slicked gold skin streaked with mud, eyelashes wet and still. Lips gone pale, edged with frost. His shirt clung to his ribs; water pooled at the hollow of his throat.
The stranger pressed his palms to Niloy's belly, slow, forceful compressions—press, release. Nothing.
He rubbed his arms and wrists. He cupped a face and shook it. Nothing.
A frown deepened. For a long, terrible instant, he hesitated.
There was no one else.
No distant footfall. No houses. No voices—only wind, trees, and a hard chill.
He leaned closer.
Niloy's lips were ice.
The stranger's hand hovered—hesitated—then curled and dropped.
He exhaled. Air fogged before him.
He bent.
With careful pressure, he sealed their mouths.
Warm breath moved into cold.
The contrast was startling—Niloy's lips rigid, barely yielding; the stranger's firm and living, carrying a heat that refused to surrender. He pushed air into Niloy's lungs, drew back, breathed again. Over and over.
At first, their mouths met briefly; then deeper—until the stranger's lips pressed and teeth nearly brushed. He felt dampness, a faint whisper of Niloy's tongue, the slick edge of canines, a tremor somewhere deep in the throat—alive, fragile, refusing to break.
Still, Niloy did not return.
Again. The stranger closed his eyes and shoved air into him.
One minute. Two.
Then—
Eyelashes twitched. The chest rose in a shallow, shuddering lift.
The stranger eased back a fraction, watching.
Niloy's eyes opened.
Not wide—only a slit, dark glass behind lashes still gleaming with rain. Breath came in staggered, ragged pulls. In that dazed, half-awake place, something soft pressed at his mouth: warmth.
Memory struck like lightning.
The night before—weight, breath, touch—fell over him.
Fear flared, bitter as bile.
Niloy lurched upright with a raw sound and shoved the figure away.
His palm flew out—one searing motion. The slap cracked, sharp as thunder.
Crack.
The stranger's head jerked with the blow; cold eyes widened, glinting—so brief, a hand might have risen in return.
"You—" his voice low, dangerous.
Niloy trembled through and through. Rain clung to lashes; lips were pale; exhaustion sagged in every limb.
He drew a long, measured breath. "You dared!"
Niloy's rigid posture slackened.
Remorse softened his features; shame bloomed, faint and hot. He bowed his head and whispered, "I'm sorry." Quieter still: "I thought..."
The stranger's eyes narrowed. "Thought what?"
Niloy opened his mouth—the words lodged like stones. He could not speak them; humiliation and fear pinched his throat. He looked away.
The stranger watched too closely.
He rose. Expression taut, but a simmering anger glimmered beneath the surface.
"—I'd touch you?"
Niloy flinched at the accusation. He forced himself upright, knees wobbling, rain-matted hair clinging to his brow.
'Mph...'
The stranger's gaze dared him—unblinking. His lips pressed into a thin line. No words escaped—no backward glance.
Only the slow, deliberate pivot of his shoulders, and then he walked away.
Niloy staggered forward, mud clinging, arms flailing.
"Wait—don't—leave me!"
He gasped, chest heaving. "W-What's... your name?"
"Stran...strangerr..."