The diner was the kind that hadn't changed since the seventies—red leather booths patched over with duct tape, the smell of grease and burnt coffee clinging to the air. The overhead fan creaked every time it turned, cutting through the faint hum of the jukebox in the corner.
Tony lounged back in the booth, one arm draped lazily across the vinyl seat, tapping his stomach before letting out a burp that turned a couple heads from the next table. He grinned like he owned the place.
Alistair, still wearing his red-tinted shades despite the neon lights buzzing overhead, tapped idly against the Formica table. His plate was picked clean except for the fries cooling in the corner.
Tony: "You gonna eat those?"
Without waiting, Tony swiped them, popping one in his mouth.
Alistair (deadpan): "No. I wasn't gonna eat those."
Tony (mouth full, smug): "I know."
He crunched loudly, the sound deliberately obnoxious.
Alistair: "So. What's next?"
Tony: "I was about to ask you that. We could take another job."
Alistair: "Nah. We just killed half a boardroom in Central. This city's a danger zone now. Cops, metas, press—it's only a matter of time before someone puts it all together. We've gotta move."
Tony leaned forward, disappointed but curious, a mischievous glint in his silver eyes.
Tony: "Alright, alright. Where we talking? Cancún? Brazil? Thailand? Someplace with sun, sand, and way less murder?"
Alistair: "Gotham City."
The fry Tony had been chewing fell out of his mouth. He stared at Alistair like he'd just confessed to joining a cult.
Tony: "What. The. Actual. FUCK. Man, you can't hype a guy up with dreams of Brazil and then drop Gotham like a goddamn funeral bell. No. No way. Not happening."
Alistair: "Why not?"
Tony (mocking): "Why not, he says. Because there's some guy there who dresses like a bat and breaks bones for a hobby! Have you not been watching the news? People disappear in Gotham. Permanently."
Alistair didn't flinch. He just leaned back, adjusting his blazer cuff, calm as ever.
Alistair: "Exactly. Smaller scale jobs, easier money. Less spotlight. Central is hot right now—every forensic geek and cape in town will be digging through the mess we left. Lucuis blurred the tapes, but how long until someone puts a face to us? A pattern? Gotham's noise works in our favor."
Tony (shaking his head, laughing): "You're insane. We're ghosts, Al. Nobody's catching us."
Just then, the waitress returned. She was young, blonde, her tan skin practically glowing under the diner's harsh lights. Her nametag read Jenny. She leaned forward onto the table just enough to make sure Alistair noticed, her perfume mixing with the smell of fried food.
Jenny: "Anything else I can get you boys?"
Alistair barely lifted his gaze, his voice smooth but detached.
Alistair: "Just the check, doll."
She lingered, lips curling into a smile before she walked off, hips swaying with practiced rhythm.
Tony's head snapped back toward Alistair, incredulous.
Tony: "You've gotta be kidding me. She was practically gift-wrapped and crawling into your lap. And you just—'thanks, doll'—her? You sick bastard. Live a little."
Alistair: "She's a distraction. I'm working."
Tony (throwing his hands up): "Working?! We're in a greasy spoon eating fries that weren't even yours. What work? You think drowning yourself in jobs is gonna heal that gaping wound in your heart? Newsflash—it won't. You need to move the fuck on."
Alistair rolled his eyes, lighting another cigarette, the smoke curling lazily toward the cracked ceiling tiles.
Tony (leaning in, grinning like a devil): "Tell you what. We're not leaving until you get her number. Hook up with her, take her out, I don't care. Something. Because if I have to watch you brood your way through another city, I'm filing for partnership divorce."
Alistair smirked faintly behind the smoke, tilting his shades down just enough to look Tony in the eye.
Alistair: "You talk too much."
Tony: "And you don't talk enough."
Jenny came back to the booth, check in hand, and leaned against the table just enough for Alistair to catch the shimmer of lip gloss under the neon lights. The smile she gave him was different this time—less "customer service," more personal.
Alistair slid his shades down the bridge of his nose, meeting her eyes directly for the first time, a small grin tugging at his lips. His voice was low, smooth, almost conspiratorial.
Alistair: "Hey… sorry about earlier. Long week. Work's been clawing at me."
Jenny tilted her head, the playful smirk already forming.
Jenny: "Not a problem, handsome. You can always make it up to me."
Alistair chuckled under his breath, that easy, unhurried confidence rolling off him. He leaned back in the booth, tapping a finger against the rim of his coffee cup.
Alistair: "Then tell me—what time do you clock out?"
Jenny (arching a brow): "Five minutes."
Alistair: "Perfect. Means I don't have to wait long."
There was no hesitation, no fumbling—just a statement, like the outcome was already certain. Jenny bit her lip, trying (and failing) to hide her excitement.
Jenny: "You planning to walk me out, or…?"
Alistair (grinning, soft but assured): "If you don't mind, I'd like to make it up to you properly. Dinner somewhere without grease stains on the walls."
Jenny: "Not at all."
She turned with a smile and sauntered back toward the counter, her shift suddenly moving slower than ever.
Tony let out a low whistle, shaking his head with exaggerated disbelief. He shoved the car keys across the table with a smirk.
Tony: "See? Not so hard, was it? Smooth as fucking silk. Just… do me a favor, yeah? Make sure you bring her back spotless, clean. Don't ruin my upholstery."
Alistair didn't even look up, just lifted a hand and flipped Tony off casually while slipping the check from Jenny's hand.
Alistair (deadpan, with the ghost of a grin): "You forgot to pay for your portion."
Tony blinked, then groaned.
Tony: "Cold-blooded. The man lands a date in under thirty seconds and still sticks me with the bill. Unreal."
Alistair finally cracked a small laugh, sliding out of the booth with unhurried grace, his presence drawing a few curious glances from other tables. He straightened his blazer, tapped the ash from his cigarette into the tray, and waited by the door—like he knew Jenny would be joining him any second.
Location: Unknown
Year: 2000
Snow stretched endlessly in every direction, a barren wasteland drowned in silence. The trees sagged under the weight of frost, their branches sharp and skeletal, as if reaching out with frozen claws. The lake nearby was fractured into jagged spires of ice, stabbing upward like the teeth of some ancient predator.
Above it all, the moon bled. Its light was no silver blessing tonight—it was crimson, spilling its poison across the sky, staining every drifting flake of snow in a sickly red glow.
The snow beneath Alistair Grimm's bare feet was already soaked with blood. It steamed in the cold air, mingling with the smoke of his breath. He was young—no more than nineteen—but the fury in his crimson eyes made him look far older, like something ancient wearing a boy's face. His long white hair clung damply to his shoulders, strands stuck to the sweat and gore on his skin. His fists dripped scarlet, his nails stretched unnaturally long, black at the tips like talons.
He tilted his head back and roared at the bleeding moon. It was no human cry—it was animal, raw and thunderous, a sound that cracked across the frozen wasteland and sent a murder of crows scattering from the trees.
Opposite him, another boy of the same age staggered in the snow. His hair was cropped short, black, already matted with his own blood. His hands shook, crimson leaking from split knuckles, but the fear in his wide eyes eclipsed the pain. He wore the same white training pants, torn and stained beyond recognition.
Boy: "A-Alistair… please—"
He couldn't finish.
In the space of a heartbeat, Alistair was gone. The air where he stood collapsed inward, a burst of frost scattering into the night. Then—
CRACK.
He was in front of the boy, towering over him, eyes blazing with that hellish red light. A weapon pulsed in his grip—an unrefined blade of blood, jagged and dripping, formed out of rage more than craft.
With a savage sweep, Alistair carved the air. The sword released a crescent of scarlet energy, a wild slash that screamed forward like a beast unleashed.
The boy stomped hard into the ice. The ground cracked, shadows erupting into a dome of black energy that wrapped him like armor. Alistair's crimson slash struck it, and the night shook. Cracks spider-webbed across the dome, glowing red under the strain, until it shattered in a burst of sparks.
Before the boy could breathe, Alistair was already there.
CRACK.
The first punch broke across his jaw. Blood sprayed across the snow.
Alistair's voice was cold, every word a blade:
"You beg me to stop? I trusted you. I trusted her. And you—stabbed me in the back."
A second punch buried itself into his stomach, ripping the air from his lungs. He vomited blood, crimson flecks staining the snow.
The third blow hurled him across the clearing, his body skidding to a stop against the jagged teeth of ice.
Alistair stalked toward him, each step slow, deliberate, the moon painting his face in red.
"Do you have any idea what it's like to lose your mind?" he growled, seizing the boy by the hair and yanking him upright. His crimson eyes blazed with unholy light.
"To die—over and over again—in that pit. To wake not knowing if it's reality… or another illusion?!"
His hand ignited with fire, the flames red as blood, red as the bleeding moon. He pressed it against the boy's face. Flesh seared. The boy's scream ripped out—animalistic, guttural, not human anymore.
The fire chewed through him… but it also scorched Alistair's own arm, licking at his skin. He didn't flinch. He welcomed it.
When he finally released him, the boy collapsed into the snow, his face half-cooked and steaming. The wound began knitting itself in jerks and spasms, skin crawling back together like something unnatural.
Alistair knelt before him. His face was calm now, almost serene, which made his words worse.
"Do you want to know what I realized in the Hole, Nik?" His tone softened, but it dripped venom.
"At first, I begged for answers. 'Why?' Over and over and over, until my throat bled. No answer came. And so I changed. Five stages. First, sadness and misery. Then anger. From anger, hatred. From hatred—madness. And from madness…" He leaned closer, whispering now, "…clarity."
Alistair's grin was haunting, his red eyes alive with a fire no sane man should carry.
"I know who I am now. I know what I want. Some would call it insanity." His voice dropped to a hiss. "I call it awakening."
He let Nik slump forward, but his hand lingered on his shoulder, almost tender.
"I want to kill you, Nik. Every nerve in my body begs me to rip you apart, to drown you in your own blood." His smile widened, cruel and radiant. "But I won't. No. Death would be mercy. Instead, I'll let you live. I'll let you rot. I want you to suffer as I did. I want you to feel the misery of loss, the sickness of betrayal, the emptiness that eats you alive. I want you to hate, Nik. Hate until it burns you hollow."
He stood, looking down at the broken figure writhing in the snow, the moon casting his shadow long and jagged.
"Only then will you understand me. Only then will you know what it means to be awake."
flashback end
Alistair lay in the dim light of a cheap motel room, Jenny sprawled across his chest, her fingers lazily tracing circles along his skin. The sheets smelled faintly of perfume and cigarette smoke.
Jenny tilted her head up at him, her blonde hair spilling across his collarbone.
Jenny (softly): "I've never met a man like you… white hair, red eyes. You're unreal."
Alistair smirked faintly, but his voice was casual.
Alistair: "Genetic trait. Runs on my father's side."
She sighed blissfully, pressing her cheek against him like he was the warmest thing in the world.
Jenny: "Why can't more men be like you?"
For a moment, his hand paused against her back. He gave her a small, sad smile, the kind you only give when the truth hurts too much to say aloud.
Alistair: "…Because if they were… there'd be no good men left in the world."
Jenny scoffed, nudging him with a playful pout.
Jenny: "You're so damn dramatic."
Her lips found his neck. She climbed on top of him, straddling his waist, her hair falling around his face like a curtain. Alistair's hands slid instinctively across her hips, up her sides. Smooth. Natural. He knew every step of this dance.
But for a flicker—just a heartbeat—his crimson eyes softened, haunted by a memory of snow, blood, and fire. Then he shut it away, letting himself sink into the moment, into her.