Max was walking back from the university at night, after a mentally exhausting day for him, given the semester's exams. Each step seemed heavier than the last, as if his own body were trying to absorb the fatigue accumulated during hours of reading, tests, and formulas that kept blending together in his mind.
The streets were as busy as ever, with cars and people coming and going, all occupied with their daily affairs. The city's hum was constant: horns pierced the air, car wheels squeaked over speed bumps, conversations and laughter mingled with the sound of cellphones and the dragging of shopping bags.
The streets, lit by car headlights and street lamps, blended with colorful ads on electronic boards and building façades, displaying promotions for stores, products, and services. The reflection of the lights on the wet pavement created a mosaic of colors that was almost hypnotic, but Max barely paid attention — his mind was too tired to get distracted by the urban scenery.
As Max walked along the sidewalks, his mind was a whirlwind of fatigue and worries — typical of a young man full of expectations and doubts about the future. He thought about his test grades, the assignments he still had to submit, his family's expectations, and the pressure to stand out in a society where every achievement seemed measured only by numbers and status. Nothing unusual in the society we live in, a society where pressure is constant and money seems to be valued more than principles or morality.
Still, behind all those thoughts, Max carried a silent sense of unease, an uncomfortable twinge he couldn't explain, as if he were walking through a world that wasn't entirely his own. Every shadow cast by the street lamps seemed to stretch suspiciously, every distant sound of footsteps or closing doors seemed to reverberate directly through his bones.
He was heading toward his usual bus stop when suddenly, a woman's scream pierced the night louder than the honking cars on the street. It was shrill, full of panic, a mix of despair and terror that cut through the night air.
"What is that?" Max murmured, turning his head from side to side, his eyes scanning the street, unsure if he was just imagining things due to fatigue and the day's tension.
But he soon realized the sound was coming from a dark alley ahead. The cries for help were clear, desperate, filled with urgency. Driven by curiosity and unease, he approached in light, cautious steps, feeling each uneven stone beneath his shoes, alert to any sound that could reveal his presence until he reached the alley entrance.
Peeking inside, the scene was enough to make his heart race: two men were holding a woman forcibly as she struggled helplessly against their arms. It didn't take much thought to understand what was happening. The violence was obvious, and the victim's vulnerability screamed in the air.
Harassment. Maybe something even worse.
Max wasn't a hero; he never wanted to be. But as a man, he couldn't simply turn his back and walk away as if nothing were happening. The impulse to protect someone in danger, even if instinctive, mixed with the growing anger and indignation inside him.
Instead of shouting and alerting them, Max pulled his head back out of the alley and leaned against the wall, taking a deep breath, feeling his heart pound in his chest. Silently, he opened his backpack and pulled out two ordinary pens, which in his hands would serve as improvised weapons, tools for defense in an emergency.
He strapped the backpack back on, clenched the pens firmly in his hand, feeling the cold metal and texture against his palm. He advanced again, footsteps light and almost inaudible, as if every movement had to be perfect to avoid alerting the attackers.
Getting closer, the scene made him squint: the woman still seemed conscious, still dressed in her clothes despite the terror on her face. At least, he thought, relieved for a moment, it hadn't gone to the worst yet. The smell of sweat and fear lingered in the air, mixed with the alley's humidity, making the environment thick and almost suffocating.
Max prepared to attack from behind, aiming for the neck of one of the two men who were more distracted, calculating each movement silently when one of them suddenly turned and shouted:
"Who are you, bastard?! What do you think you're doing here?!"
Max didn't answer. His cold eyes shone in the dark, fixed on them like silent blades, assessing every reaction, every possible move.
In response, the men acted cruelly: one of them punched the woman in the stomach, throwing her against the wall. A muffled groan of pain echoed through the alley, and Max could see, even in the shadows, the expression of panic and suffering on her delicate face. Anger exploded inside him. His fingers tightened even more around the pens, the pressure almost bending them.
'Brother, we can't let him leave here alive…' said one of the thugs, looking at the older one.
The other, with hard features and a fierce look, simply nodded. He stepped forward, his knuckles cracking like a warning, and gave Max a look full of contempt.
"You shouldn't have come here, kid. Now there's no escape." His voice dripped with arrogance, as if Max's life and fate were trapped in those filthy hands.
The older one took the first step forward, his knuckles cracking like a promise of violence. Max took a deep breath, adjusting his stance. He wasn't a hero, but he wasn't a coward either. His mind focused on what he knew: kendo, boxing, self-defense. One against two. Even knowing martial arts, he was still made of flesh and could feel pain like anyone else.
The first punch came fast, straight to the face. Max dodged with a boxing move, twisting his body and stabbing the pen into the side of the older man's face. The tip pierced his cheek, tearing through the flesh up to his mouth. The scream of pain echoed through the alley, muffled by his own flesh.
Max didn't give him space. A direct punch to the Adam's apple made the man's eyes widen, choking, air trapped in his throat. Before he could react, Max followed with a hook to the chin with all his strength, stunning him. The body staggered, and Max finished with a solid kick to the face, knocking him out onto the dirty alley floor.
"One down…" he muttered, feeling the adrenaline rush through his veins.
But there was no time to breathe.
"YOU BASTARD!" shouted the younger one, drawing a knife from his pocket and charging.
Max stepped back, the blade grazing him, tearing his shirt and scratching his skin. The burn stung, but he didn't allow himself to look. The enemy was in front of him.
The fight became more savage. The thug attacked with desperate slashes, Max dodged with spins and blocks, countering with quick jabs, low kicks, and pen stabs. Still, the blade landed a precise hit: it pierced Max's left arm in an unusual way.
"Arghh, damn it!" he growled in pain, teeth clenched, blood flowing, hot and sticky, staining his skin and clothes.
The thug tried to pull the knife back, but it was stuck in the muscle. That was the opening.
With a burst of rage, Max lunged and drove the pen into the attacker's eye. The scream was horrific, sharp, animalistic. The man tried to break free, but Max didn't give him space: a brutal headbutt crushed his nose with a dry crack.
CRACK!
The thug stumbled back against the wall, blood gushing from his face.
Max moved like a furious shadow, grabbing his face with his right hand, smashing his neck against the wall.
THUD!
A snap echoed. The bones gave way.
The thug was still trying to breathe, but Max repeated the motion, smashing his head against the concrete a second time. The body collapsed, lifeless, blood flowing from the eye socket and broken nose.
And then silence. Just silence.
Max stayed there, gasping, his arm throbbing in pain, his hands covered in blood, the pens now dyed red. The two men lay on the ground — one unconscious, the other out cold with a destroyed face.
"Huff… huff… huff… haaa…" he breathed deeply, his heart pounding like a drum. There was no glorious victory. Only an act of survival.
Max brought his right hand to his left arm, where the knife was still lodged. He thought about pulling it out at once but soon gave up. If he did it carelessly, he could make the wound worse. The best course was to call the police and then head to the hospital, where they would handle it properly.
He then turned to the woman, more concerned about her than his own pain.
But he froze in place.
The woman, who had previously been curled in fear, eyes full of terror, was now standing a few steps away. Her lips displayed a serene, almost hypnotic smile, while her golden eyes gleamed with a strange, impossibly shifting glow.
Max took half a step back, his heart racing. How had she gotten so close without him noticing? He hadn't heard a step, not even a whisper.
"What…?" he tried to ask, but the word died in his throat before it left his lips.
Before he could react, the woman moved. Too fast. Too fast for any human eye to follow.
Suddenly, a white cloth covered his nose and mouth. He recoiled instinctively, but the delicate — yet merciless — hand of the woman gripped the back of his neck, holding him in place.
Max's eyes widened, trying to scream, struggle, but his muscles were already weakening. A warm torpor ran through his body. The world spun, the ground seemed to vanish beneath his feet, and his vision began to darken at the edges.
The last thing he heard was her voice, sweet yet carrying a disturbingly strange tone, whispering in his ear:
"My hero…"
And then darkness swallowed him, dragging him into a deep and absolute sleep.