Rayon hadn't gone five steps before the shouts caught up to him.
"Boy! Stop! Don't think you can run!"
A trio of burly men barreled into the alley, boots pounding, fists swinging. The first one grabbed at him—and for the first time, Rayon saw it clearly: the threads.
They weren't just in the alley—they were in them. The tension of their muscles, the frantic pulse of their hearts, the fear radiating off their minds—all strings he could see, feel, and… pull.
Instinct took over.
Rayon yanked. Not violently, not yet—just a gentle tug at the nearest string. The man's eyes flickered strangely, his legs wobbling. He tripped over the cobblestones like his own feet had betrayed him, crashing face-first into the wall.
The second man swung at Rayon. He felt the threads of the man's arm before the fist landed. With a thought, Rayon twisted it, and the swing became a wide, useless arc. Rayon ducked under it, grabbed the man's wrist mid-swing, and spun him around into the third man. Bones cracked. A grunt of pain. Rayon barely flinched.
The last man froze, eyes wide as he saw his friends crumpled on the ground. Rayon's black hollow eyes glinted in the dim alleylight.
"You don't get to decide if you eat," Rayon said softly. His voice was low, calm… and somehow terrifying.
He pulled at the final string. Not his arm, not his legs—his mind. Confusion, fear, panic—they wrapped around the man like a noose. The man's feet tangled as if caught in invisible ropes. He collapsed. Hands scraping, eyes wild, lungs burning, trying to fight an enemy that wasn't there.
Rayon stepped over them, bread clutched in one hand, shards of glass in the other. No one moved. No one dared.
For a moment, Rayon felt… nothing. The hunger gnawed, but the power—the strings under his fingertips, bending the world to his will—was intoxicating.
Then came the smell of blood.
The second man, the one Rayon had spun into his friend, whimpered, a thin line of crimson running down his temple. His jaw hung loose, teeth cracked, and something deep inside Rayon stirred. Not guilt. Not fear. Satisfaction.
This is survival. This is right.
Everything else was noise.
Rayon dropped the bread, crouched, and wiped his bloody hands on his pants. The men groaned on the ground, one even crawling away. He didn't stop them. He didn't chase them. That wasn't necessary.
The alley was silent again, except for the wind and the distant city noises.
Rayon's hollow eyes traced the threads still lingering in the air, faintly glowing. They pulsed, almost alive. He flexed his fingers. Each string responded instantly.
And he understood—he could do more.
A smirk stretched across his face. One day, the entire city would be a web. Every man, woman, thief, and noble—strings under his fingers, moving exactly how he wanted.
But first… he needed food. And protection. And knowledge.
Because the gutter had taught him this: weakness meant death. And Rayon Veynar… he would never be weak again.