Perspective: The Fragment
The street narrowed as I pressed farther from the fountain. Lanterns grew fewer, their oil starved, their flames bending with each breath of night. Stone pressed underfoot with uneven edges, as if the city had not cared to finish this place.
I slowed, ribs tight with each inhale. My hand throbbed beneath its wrapping, the faint seep of blood a reminder that weakness had claimed me again. I thought of turning back, but a sound in the dark stopped me—boots scuffing, too deliberate to belong to chance.
From shadow, two men separated. Their faces were not veiled; they carried the night openly. One swung a length of timber, splintered and stained with old use. The other weighed a small knife in his palm, the blade's edge flashing only when a lantern coughed nearby.
Knife. Timber. Threat. These I knew. Angles of violence arranged themselves without my bidding. Strike low, catch the wrist, break bone. Knowledge whispered itself into place. Yet my body answered differently—trembling, breath shallow, knees refusing command.
"Look at him," one muttered, his voice rough as gravel. "Lost bird."
The other's mouth cracked into a grin. "Or a purse with legs."
They closed the distance. My chest tightened beneath the ribs, not from exertion but from something unseen pressing inward. A word flickered—fear—but I could not hold it steady.
The knife-bearer gestured with his blade. "Coin?"
I found my mouth moving. "Coin…" The word broke, not a reply but an echo.
He tilted his head, his smirk twisting. "Doesn't even understand."
The timber struck my shoulder, not hard, but enough to stagger me against the wall. Pain rang sharp, simple, and unanswerable. I gasped without intending it.
They laughed—not the laughter I had heard from children near the fountain, but a different sound, heavier, meant to bruise.
"Empty," one said.
"Then he'll pay with noise," the other replied, and the timber came again, this time across my ribs. I folded, air torn from me, stone rushing up to meet my side.
For a moment, the ground and I were the same thing. Cold, unyielding. My vision thinned.
A knife pressed near my cheek. His eyes searched me, expecting resistance, expecting something more. He found only frailty. With a sound of disgust, he drew back. "Not worth dulling steel."
They left together, still speaking in low tones. Their words trailed into the distance, but their contempt clung heavier than the bruises.
I remained on the stones, chest heaving, ribs alight with hurt. Knowledge still whispered of counters, reversals, endings. But my body—this body—refused every call. And so I learned what knowledge could not replace: the weight of being prey.