The back alleyway was steeped in a sour, gritty smell, the kind that you cannot bear even for a minute. Something that's worst than a rotten fish flesh.
Deep within this familiar space, the gang huddled around a broken crate, and the single flicker of a lantern throwing their shadows against grim cobblestone walls.
Tonight, the gang's regular meeting was anything but. An unspoken anxiety pulsed beneath their usual bravado, as if every sound outside was a threat.
Kurt sat cross-legged on the crate, chin in his hands, his face pinched but oddly placid.
Barely ten years old, yet he held himself with unnervingly calm unlike for someone with his age; though nose bloodied, jacket buttoned wrong, his gaze remains unwavering towards his co-members.
Across from him, Rafe expression as if a boiling kettle, fists clenched and white-knuckled in his worn coat. His sharp tongue had already lashed the group once tonight.
Mick, larger than the rest with a doleful expression, leaned back against the alley wall, idly flipping a knife between his swollen fingers.
He watched Rafe with half-lidded eyes but his slow smile cradling the corner of his mouth fails him.
Arvin stood sentry just past Mick. Being a gang leader by right of age and a steady-handed patience.
He didn't need to speak to command the group; his presence alone had a centering effect, even on volatile Rafe -- or at least, that's what Arvin liked to think.
"Alright, Kurt," Rafe barked, finally halting mid-stride, "explain that stupid stunt! Why the hell d'you stab the guy? We planned fistfights. Fists! Not knives. Are you even listening?"
Kurt lifted his gaze, eyes steady beneath the mop of tangled hair. He let the silence drag on, relishing the discomfort, before replying.
"I didn't do it just to stab him," Kurt replied, voice careful but edged with an annoyance that belied with his age.
"I..." He hesitated, glancing briefly at Mick, then back to Rafe. "I sensed something. It seeems that the Watcher was there. It was… watching us."
Mick raised both eyebrows, slow and skeptical.
Rafe rolled his eyes so hard it was a wonder that he still didn't get possessed after doing so.
"The what?! Watcher? What the hell are you talking about?!" Angrily said by Rafe,
"So are you telling me that you fucked our operation just because you sense shit huh?! What are you, a psychic or something? What next?! You will say you get some random horoscope saying you should eat sh*t, Who do think you are?!"
"A kid with more brains than a grown man like you," Kurt shot back, voice oozed with sarcasms and mockery.
The challenge quickly hang thick in the cold air. Without warning, Rafe lunges, a wild punch aim at Kurt's jaw, his body surge forward, fuel by raw rage.
The alley echoed the crack of knuckles meeting flesh and bones.
Kurt twisted sharply, avoiding the blow by inches. His small frame moved with surprising fluidity. He countered with a flare of quick jabs, targeting Rafe's ribs and temple, just enough to tests that guy's defenses.
Rafe grunted, staggering back but recovering quickly, his bulk now an advantage. He closed the distance with a powerful forward shove, pinning Kurt against the cold wall. His heavy breathing fogged the frigid air between them.
"Think you can dance like a coward forever?" Rafe's voice was akin to the growl of a st*p*d bear.
Kurt's fists rose, tight and tense. His eyes flicked briefly to Mick, who flipped his worn knife between swollen fingers, a silent spectator ready to step in.
With a sudden burst, Kurt jabbed his elbow up sharply into Rafe's ribs. The smaller strike landed with a dull smack, eliciting a grunt. Blood welled from Rafe's top lip as his sneer faltered.
Rafe retaliated with a half-swinging right hook that caught Kurt hard on the side of the head, sending him reeling. The impact blurred Kurt's vision like stars flickering before his eyes. He stumbled with nose bleeding, teeth biting harshly to suppress a growning groan.
The gang's murmurs rose as the tension thickens.
Rafe pressed his advantage, cutting off Kurt's retreat with heavy steps. He threw a series of broad punches; his style was all about overwhelming force, crude but effective when it connected.
Kurt ducked and bobbed, eyes flicking for openings. He dodged a brutal right, slipping low and sweeping Rafe's legs with a swift arc. Rafe crashed to the ground with a grunt, dust kicking up around him.
A murmur rippled from the gang. Mick's grin widened; Arvin's sharp gaze didn't miss a beat.
Rafe rolled, coming up in a crouch and lunged again, more cautious now but still shaking off the fall. His fists rained down in a controlled barrage, targeting Kurt's shoulders and jaw.
Kurt blocked where he could, absorbing bruises and stinging cuts. One reckless hook connected, snapping Kurt's head sideways; a thin line of blood trickled from his split lip. Yet his movements remained focused, fluid. His attacks were precise, short jabs to ribs and quick strikes.
Rafe's heavy breaths panted; his blows slowed but have ferocity. He shoved Kurt into the alley wall, the impact rattling his bones. Rafe's hands closed around Kurt's jacket front, squeezing hard, lifting him slightly.
But before the situation could further escalate, Arvin stepped in between hastly seperating them both, and holding both of their arms with ease.
""Enough," Arvin said, "No one here likes how it turned out. But we can't fix things by beating each other over the head, you both know that we're all family— And Kurt, just give us your honest reason not some bullshits."
The tension snapped, and the gang exhaled, the fight was over.
Kurt lowered his fists, wiping the mix of sweat and blood from his face.
Rafe's glare softened into a grudging acceptance as he rubbed his bruised ribs.
Kurt's lips thinned, his gaze flickering to the alley entrance, then returning with a new, haunted resolve. "I just... Sometimes I feel there's more in these streets than just us. Ever seen the way the shadows move, even when the wind's still? I swear, if I hadn't ended things quick, we'd be in deeper trouble."
A silence fell. Even Rafe's anger dimmed to unease.
"Yeah, you sure sent a message," Mick scoffed, but less harshly than before, "but probably just 'We're idiots so please avoid us.'"
"Are you starting another fight? Mick." Arvin said annoyed.
Kurt stuck out his tongue in response.
Rafe huffed and sat on a broken barrel, head in his hands. "Maybe next time we should just go back to scaring folks for their bread money again" he mumbled, "At least bread can't stab you back."
But then, as quickly as it came, Arvin brought the group back, his voice quieter, "Forget it. We're lucky the whole town isn't out here hunting us tonight. We lay low for now. No more stunts."
Their meeting continued more subdued, more thoughtful, and for once, Kurt sat still, Mick let his knife rest, and Rafe just glared at his own shoes.
Meanwhile, at the opposite end of the world, a lamp flickered in a tiny cabin, casting trembling gold patterns over old floorboards and tucked blankets.
Joren blinked slowly at the light pushing through the window, scrubbing sleep from his eyes with the back of a frail hand.
Every breath was a little easier than last night. A small comfort as he shivered and pulled the quilt closer.
With effort, he swung his feet off the bed, steadying himself before sitting up. The house was quiet; only a faint, herbal scent lingered, and a trace of fried chicken Lira must have brought home late.
Joren's gaze caught a note pinned to the kitchen table:
Sorry I couldn't stay for breakfast. Make sure to eat! Your favorite food is there, okay? —Lira
A shy smile crept over his pale face. He found the bowl, lifting the lid to inhale the familiar aroma of lugaw -- soft rice, broth, and a fried chicken besides it.
He ate quietly, savoring the taste even though the sickness dulled his tongue and some even dribbled down his chin.
Once finished, Joren drifted back to bed. There was no clatter of dialogue, but that was alright.
He was learning to value quiet, and the certainty that tomorrow Lira would safely return.
As evening rolled in, the quiet cabin was disturbed just outside Joren's window.
At first, it was only the wind, but then a figure materialized on their porch, a silhouette draped in a dark cloak, moving so lightly she barely disturbed the dust.
She paused, glancing through the window at the sleeping child. Just for a moment -- a moment's pause -- a flicker of regret or irritation pulled at her features before she turned and withdrew a crumpled wanted poster from her cloak, glancing between it and the delicate family photograph nailed beside the door.
The faces didn't match, and her posture slumped with frustration.
"Next time… I should be more careful," she whispered, then disappeared into the darkness as silently as she had come.
Some time later, Lira herself returned, lugging a simple basket loaded with bread and a sweet bun she'd managed to trade for on the way home.
She moved quietly, dropping her cloak by the door and tiptoeing to Joren's bed.
His breathing was soft, the harsh coughing gone, at least for tonight.
Lira's heart melted at the sight, exhaustion briefly forgotten.
She sat watching him for a while, her mind drifting over worries and hopes, until she couldn't keep her eyes open.
She didn't realize she'd fallen asleep until morning sunlight cut through the curtains and set dust motes dancing around them.
Lira yawned, stretched, and smiled gently as she pulled the blanket up tighter around Joren's thin shoulders.
"A little longer," she murmured, "and I'll have breakfast ready." It didn't matter if Joren was awake yet; Lira understood the comfort of these morning rituals. One of the few things that brought her peace.