The bar reeked of spilled beer and cheap cologne—stale and sticky, just like every other Tuesday night in Elias's life. He had been slouched at the counter for over an hour, turning the same glass between his fingers. Not because he couldn't afford another—though his wallet was definitely on life support—but because sitting among strangers felt slightly better than going home to the neon buzz seeping through thin curtains and the peeling paint he couldn't bring himself to fix.
The waitress slid a bowl of peanuts in front of him, her dark hair pulled back in a hasty ponytail, eyes heavy with the same weight he felt. Melissa, according to her nametag.
"On the house," she said, her voice softer than the place deserved. "You look like you could use something besides that whiskey you've been nursing."
Elias mustered a crooked smile that didn't reach his eyes. "A guardian angel disguised as a waitress. What did I do to deserve that?"
"It's peanuts, not a marriage proposal," she replied, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly.
"Shame. I actually clean up well for weddings." He leaned forward, a move of someone who'd lost enough that losing felt all too familiar. "What time do you get off? I'll walk you home. Keep the big bad wolves away."
Her polite smile tightened, her eyes cooling. "My boyfriend's got that covered."
"Lucky guy," he muttered, watching her drift away.
He chuckled to himself—a dry, hollow sound swallowed by the sports commentary. Security guard by night. Professional rejection collector by evening. Porn, cold takeout, dreamless sleep. Repeat until death. Living the dream. Minimum wage, maximum despair.
He grabbed a handful of peanuts, wincing as salt found a cut on his thumb he had forgotten about. Dinner of champions. If bar snacks counted as a meal, that wasn't even pathetic anymore. That was just Tuesday.
He scanned the room. Couples leaning in, friends laughing over inside jokes—people with actual lives. At the far end, a woman caught his gaze and held it half a second too long. Pretty in a striking way. Dark hair. Professional clothes that didn't try too hard. The kind of watch that belonged behind glass cases, not anywhere near beer-sticky counters.
He looked away before hope could find him. Even false hope left scars.
He tossed back the last amber swallow and slid a crumpled bill across the counter. Standing made his head swim—not drunk, just bone-tired. Always so damn tired.
"Another?" the bartender asked, already reaching for the bottle. Elias shook his head.
Outside, the neon sign buzzed overhead, washing the lot in sickly red that made everything look slightly diseased. He thumbed a cigarette free and lit it, smoke curling into the night.
The door opened behind him. The woman stepped out, heels clicking sharply. Her eyes brushed his before moving on, too deliberate to be an accident. Under the harsh streetlight, she put a phone to her ear, her free hand slicing through the air—those gestures people use when they're not asking, they're telling. She stood with her back to the brick wall, body angled toward potential escape routes.
Her call ended abruptly. She squared her shoulders like someone buckling on armour and moved toward the narrow alley beside the bar. She didn't look back.
The cigarette burned down to his fingers. Elias flicked it into the wet pavement. Curiosity prickled the back of his neck like a cold finger tracing his spine.
***
Elias watched a man in a filthy tracksuit pull up his hood and dash into the alley, clearly pursuing the woman. He stepped onto the curb, hesitating. None of your business, his mind warned, urging him to walk away, maybe call 911, and let the professionals handle it. Let the world chew itself up as it always did.
A scream shattered the night, sharp and bone-deep.
"Shit," he muttered, already sprinting before his brain caught up with his feet.
Wet pavement slapped beneath his boots as the alley opened up before him. The woman was pinned against a brick wall, hands raised. A rail-thin man waved a knife in her face, the blade catching neon lights in jittery flashes, his withdrawal tremors drumming a desperate rhythm along his forearm.
Elias slowed. This wasn't his fight. The smart play was—
He thought of his own monotonous routine—work, porn, sleep—and felt a surge of spite rise in his chest. Maybe heroism was just boredom dressed up.
"Health code violation coming through," he muttered, grabbing the rim of a nearby trash can.
He swung hard. The aluminum screamed against concrete as the lid struck the man's shoulder; the can toppled, spilling a putrid mix of vinegar and old meat. The attacker crumpled beneath the decaying avalanche, the knife skittering away to disappear under a dumpster.
"Holy—" Elias gasped, surprised to find any air in his lungs.
The heap of garbage and human groaned. Elias kicked at the trash until the movement beneath him stilled.
"You okay?" he asked the woman, suddenly aware of the week-old fish juice soaking into his boots.
Her reply died in her throat, her eyes widening as she looked past him.
"Playing hero, huh?" a voice drawled from the alley entrance.
Two men blocked the exit, wearing matching leather jackets like they'd ordered from the same Thugs-R-Us catalog. Eyes like burned-out sockets. One thumbed open a switchblade with practiced boredom; the other twirled a butterfly knife, the blade flashing in deadly arcs.
"That's our customer," the taller one said, nodding toward the trash-covered heap. "You just knocked out our income stream."
Pride curdled in Elias's stomach, replaced by something colder. Of course. The universe had a twisted sense of timing.
"So this is how I die," he said, half to himself. "In a garbage filled alley, protecting a woman who wouldn't look twice at me in daylight."
They moved in unhurriedly, as if this was the only possible outcome. No theatrics—just cold inevitability.
Steel whispered through the air. Pain bloomed hot and sudden as the switchblade grazed his forearm—a burning line followed by a rush of warmth. The next swipe nicked his shoulder, a searing leash yanked tight. He dodged the third blow purely by luck as his boot slid on something that might have once been lettuce.
"Hold still, hero," the tall one said, smirking. "Make it easier on yourself."
Something clicked in Elias—a cold clarity washing over him. Move or die.
When the knife lunged again, he charged forward instead of retreating. His knee drove up with all his strength and connected squarely. The man's mouth formed a perfect "O" as the butterfly knife clattered to the pavement.
Elias seized it before his brain fully registered. It felt right in his palm. It felt like a decision.
He didn't hesitate.
The blade slid through fabric and into flesh—once, twice, three times. It hit rib, slid off, found softness. Warmth sprayed his face and lips. The man made a small, surprised sound, then he folded in on himself.
The partner took one look and bolted, footsteps clattering down the alley before disappearing into the street noise.
Elias stood over the body, his heart hammering against his ribs. Blood pooled, searching for cracks in the concrete. He had just killed a man.
He waited for the collapse, for guilt, for something—anything—to prove he was still human.
His hands shook, not from fear, but from a misfiring body that hadn't gotten the memo that it should be horrified.
***
Dark red oozed toward the drain, thread-thin and patient. Elias stared at the knife, watching blood slip down the blade. The world felt distant, as if he were viewing everything through frosted glass.
"Thank you," the woman said, her voice cutting through his fog like a blade.
He looked up. She stood tall now—no tremor, no shock, no grateful wobble or tears—just cool appraisal. She plucked a piece of lettuce off her jacket, like someone fixing a minor inconvenience before a meeting.
"You were... efficient," she added.
Something twisted in his gut. Predators wore that exact smile when prey wandered willingly into their territory.
"Lady, I just killed someone for you," Elias said, gesturing at the corpse with the bloody blade. His voice reflected his feelings—thin and devoid of humour. "Most people would be losing their shit right about now."
She stepped closer, her heels clicking against the concrete, the sound echoing off the brick walls. "Most people aren't worth saving."
Her hand reached for his—the one still gripping the knife. Her fingers were cold and impossibly soft. The scent of her perfume hit him like winter citrus, clean and almost surgical. A moment of intimacy, then pure fire.
Pain exploded across his skin—white-hot, blinding, immediate. The knife clattered against the wet concrete as his knees buckled beneath him. A scream tore through his throat.
"What the fuck—" he choked, cradling his burning hand.
A black mark seared itself into the back of his palm, lines and symbols weaving together, shifting like something alive and trapped. It writhed, then settled, the skin around it steaming in the night air.
The alley... changed.
Bricks stretched upward impossibly high. Mortar lines tessellated, sharpening into what looked like graphite circuits. Neon light outside flickered into hexagonal patterns, as if reality suddenly had a user interface. A low, subsonic hum filled the air—too deep to hear properly but felt through teeth and bones. Shadows pooled at his feet, then climbed his body, cold and slick as engine coolant, wrapping around his calves and thighs.
"Elias Crane," the woman said, her posture transforming into military precision, the vulnerable stranger act shed like dead skin. "My name is Tessa Bishop. Field recruiter. Handler." The watch on her wrist pulsed with silent light; the shadows seemed to keep perfect time with it.
"Who?" he rasped, as the sigil pumped waves of deliberate pain up his arm.
"The organisation that's been watching you," she said. "Twenty-seven years old. Night security at Westfield. Shoebox apartment with peeling paint. Minimum wage, maximum despair." She delivered it flat, like reading from an open file. "That mark is your identification—" she hesitated, a slight slip "—your property tag under the Obsidian Accord."
"Property," he echoed, the word sharp.
"The branding kills most candidates." No pity in her voice, just cold data. "You didn't die. That means you're compatible."
He tried to step back, but the shadows held him firmly, wrapping around his ribs as if to memorise his structure.
"Congratulations, Elias Crane," Tessa said. A smirk touched one corner of her mouth, a tiny victory flag planted on conquered territory. "You've just been recruited."
The darkness surged and closed in, swallowing the alley, the body, the sickly neon light. For a moment, there was nothing but the humming, the cold, and the tight, electric burn in his hand.
"Compatible," Tessa murmured, satisfaction warming her voice.
Figures, he thought as the void took him. Typical fucking Tuesday. Then, faintly, and surprisingly even to himself: Finally—something actually worth doing.