The alley had gone quiet, but that peace was always temporary in the slums. Rayon knew it. Every shadow could hide a knife, every corner a gang looking to take what little scraps he had left.
He wasn't wrong.
Three larger men, each taller and broader than him, stepped into the alley, eyes like predators. Their leader cracked a knuckle and spat blood onto the stone. "You think you can steal from us, runt? You've got guts, I'll give you that. But guts won't save you."
Rayon didn't flinch. Not from the words, not from the looming threat. Not anymore. Hunger sharpened his senses. Fear made him faster. And the strings… the strings hummed beneath his fingertips.
He could see them—the tension in their muscles, the panic they didn't even realize was growing in their minds, the very heartbeat of their rage. All threads waiting to be plucked.
The leader lunged. Rayon sidestepped in a blur, tugging at the thread connected to his arm. The swing became heavy, clumsy. His foot caught the cobblestone and he stumbled forward. Rayon spun, grabbed him by the collar, and shoved him straight into the second man. A sickening crunch echoed as ribs broke.
The second man roared and swung at Rayon's head. He felt the strings of the man's arm before the fist landed. A subtle twist—a flick of his wrist—and the punch veered into the alley wall. Brick dust fell. Rayon stepped in, driving his palm into the man's chest with all his weight, and the man flew back, hitting the ground with a thud.
The third man hesitated. His friends were writhing, groaning. Rayon's hollow eyes met his. There was no mercy there. No hesitation. Just precision.
"You really want this?" Rayon whispered. The man froze, the strings around his mind quivering. Panic, confusion, fear—they wrapped around him, constricting like invisible chains. Rayon pulled. The man's legs tangled, his balance betrayed him. He stumbled, fell, and slammed face-first into the wall, teeth cracking. A wet, painful sound. Rayon didn't flinch.
Blood, sweat, and broken bone mixed on the cobblestones. Rayon crouched low, shards of glass in his hands, ready for any movement. He felt the strings of the alley itself—the rough walls, the uneven stones. Every obstacle, every surface, he could manipulate now with a thought. The world was no longer random; it obeyed him.
The three men groaned on the ground, half-conscious, unable to understand what had just happened. Rayon stepped over them, picking up his bread, dusting off his hands. He didn't gloat. He didn't celebrate. That was childish. This was survival, and survival demanded control.
He walked out of the alley slowly, letting the three crumpled bodies be the first lesson for anyone who thought to challenge him. Let them live… just barely. Let them remember fear.
Hunger still gnawed at him, but something else thrummed stronger than his stomach: power. The Hollow Strings weren't just tools—they were freedom. With them, Rayon could carve his path, bend the world, and one day, climb far higher than these gutters, far higher than the petty gangs of Veynar city.
But first, he had to survive today. And survive he would.
Rayon Veynar smiled again. Not a child's smile. Not a boy's. A predator's smile, hollow and cold, born of pain, hunger, and a mind that was already calculating ten steps ahead.
The city had no idea what was coming.
And Rayon would make sure they would never forget him.