The city never slept. Elian learned this in the quiet hours before dawn, when the world seemed to hold its breath and the only movement was the scurrying of rats along the gutters. Mina was curled beside him, her breathing shallow but steady, her hand curled protectively around a battered backpack. Elian sat with his back against the cold brick, eyes half-closed, listening.
He had always been a watcher. It was a habit born of necessity, sharpened by fear. The Hand had taught him that the world was full of predators and prey—and that the difference between them was often nothing more than a moment's hesitation. He would not hesitate again.
His stomach twisted, a dull ache that had become as familiar as his own heartbeat. Hunger was a constant companion, gnawing at his resolve. Elian pressed a hand to his ribs, feeling the sharpness beneath his skin. He needed food. Mina did too.
He waited until the first light crept over the rooftops before nudging her awake. She blinked at him, wary and tired.
"Food run?" she asked, voice rough with sleep.
He nodded. Words were precious, wasted only when necessary. Together, they slipped from their hiding place and into the waking city.
Hell's Kitchen was a patchwork of hope and ruin. The rich kept to their towers, far above the filth and desperation below. Down here, every day was a battle. Elian moved through the streets with practiced care, eyes scanning for danger and opportunity alike.
They made their way to a corner store that opened early, its owner notorious for his indifference to the homeless. Mina hung back, watching the door. Elian slipped inside, moving with the easy confidence of someone who belonged.
He drifted through the aisles, his gaze lingering on the shelves. He picked up a loaf of bread, a bruised apple, a pack of jerky. He kept his movements slow, deliberate. The clerk barely glanced at him.
At the counter, Elian fumbled with a handful of coins, counting out just enough for the bread. The apple and jerky disappeared into his sleeves, hidden by quick, practiced fingers. He met the clerk's gaze, offering a small, tired smile.
The clerk grunted, uninterested. Elian left, heart pounding.
Outside, Mina waited in the alley. He handed her the bread and apple, keeping the jerky for himself. She tore into the bread, eyes never leaving the street.
"You're good at that," she said between bites.
Elian shrugged. "Practice."
She studied him, her gaze sharp. "You weren't always on the street."
He shook his head. "No."
She didn't press. They ate in silence, sharing what little they had.
Later, they wandered the city, searching for safe places to rest, for scraps to scavenge. Elian watched the people around them—the way they moved, the way they spoke. He mimicked their posture, their walk, their casual indifference. He learned to disappear.
They found a group of kids huddled beneath an overpass, sharing a fire built from stolen wood. Mina hesitated, but Elian nodded. They approached, careful and slow.
The other kids watched them with suspicion. A boy with a scar across his cheek spoke first. "You new?"
Mina nodded. "Just passing through."
The boy grunted. "No trouble."
Elian sat near the edge of the group, listening. The kids talked about the gangs, about the cops, about the Hand. Always the Hand.
"They're looking for someone," one girl whispered, eyes wide. "A kid. Said he's got something they want."
Elian felt a chill run down his spine. He kept his face blank, his gaze on the fire.
"Who?" Mina asked, voice careful.
The girl shrugged. "Dunno. Just a kid, I guess. They're offering money."
The group fell silent, the fire crackling between them. Elian felt the weight of their stares, the unspoken questions. He kept his secrets close.
That night, Elian and Mina found shelter in an abandoned building, its windows shattered and walls covered in graffiti. They barricaded the door with a broken chair, settling in a corner far from the street.
Mina pulled her backpack close, rummaging through its contents. She handed Elian a faded blanket, her expression unreadable.
"Why are they after you?" she asked quietly.
Elian hesitated. He could lie. He could tell her nothing. But trust, he realized, was a currency as valuable as food.
"They think I have something," he said finally. "Something important."
She studied him, eyes searching. "Do you?"
He shrugged. "Maybe. I don't know."
She nodded, accepting his answer. "If they come, we run."
He smiled, a small, tired thing. "Yeah. We run."
They lay in silence, the city's noise muffled by crumbling walls. Elian felt the mark on his spine, a dull ache that never faded. He wondered what it meant—what the Hand wanted from him.
He closed his eyes, listening to Mina's breathing. He let his mind drift, replaying the day's events. He analyzed every moment, every interaction. He learned.
In his dreams, he saw flashes of another life—memories that weren't his. A world of color and light, of heroes and villains. He remembered names—Daredevil, Kingpin, Elektra. He remembered stories, battles fought in the shadows.
He woke with a start, heart racing. The city was quiet, the sun just beginning to rise. Mina was still asleep, curled beneath the blanket.
Elian sat up, pressing a hand to his spine. The mark burned, a reminder of everything he didn't understand.
He needed answers.
The next day, Elian watched the Hand's men move through the city. They were easy to spot—too clean, too confident. They searched the alleys, questioned the homeless, flashed wads of cash.
Elian kept his distance, watching from the shadows. He memorized their faces, their routines. He learned their weaknesses.
He began to notice patterns—places they avoided, people they ignored. He realized that the city itself was a map, its secrets hidden in plain sight.
He shared what he learned with Mina, teaching her how to move unseen, how to listen without being noticed. She learned quickly, her eyes bright with understanding.
Together, they became ghosts—moving through the city without leaving a trace.
One evening, as they watched the Hand's men from a rooftop, Mina spoke.
"Why don't you fight back?" she asked.
Elian considered the question. He thought of the training, the pain, the lessons in violence. He thought of the fear that still lived in his bones.
"Fighting gets you noticed," he said quietly. "Noticing gets you killed."
She nodded, understanding. "But what if you have no choice?"
He met her gaze, his expression hard. "Then you fight to win."
They sat in silence, watching the city below.
Elian felt the power inside him, subtle and strange. He couldn't name it, but he knew it was growing. Every day, every lesson, every moment of pain and hunger—he absorbed it all, turning weakness into strength.
He was changing. Becoming something new.
He didn't know what he would become. Not yet.
But he was learning. And that, he realized, was enough.