Chapter 1: Is This the End
Night had long fallen.
The city lay silent beneath a dim sky, its breath thick with dust and old rain. In the narrow alleyway between two forgotten buildings, a boy stood beneath a flickering streetlight.
His name was Aiden Cross.
Seventeen years of age. A pair of dark eyes , and hair as black as ink falling over a pale face. His frame was lean, hardened by years of labor, and his hands bore the faint traces of bruises.
He had been an orphan since he could remember it clearly—one day, fire broke out in his house, killing his parents. He had been at school then, his bag still slung over his shoulder, when the flames rose from the roof of his house and burned his house and parents into ashes.
No relatives came either.
The rest of the world simply turned away.
He left school. He lived his life on the money that his parents had saved in the bank. He worked odd jobs—cleaning, hauling, carrying crates until his fingers cracked. The world was cruel, but it taught him well. He started working on the streets, and as time passed, he would do all sorts of physical and labour work to earn money. During this time, he had many conflicts with others on the streets. These conflicts broke into fights. Sometimes he will get seriously beaten, sometimes he has to run for hours, and sometimes he beats his opponents.
And so he learned.
He memorized the alleys and the routes behind the markets. He learned which doors were left unlocked, which walls could be climbed, and which paths the police rarely patrolled. He learned how to fight, too.
In time, the timid boy turned into someone the street itself seemed to acknowledge.
Not feared, not respected—but known.
Yet, even then, Aiden held to one principle: he would not fall as low as the men who ruled the alleys. He would not steal from the helpless or harm the weak.
He fought, but he fought only when cornered.
And tonight, once again, he was standing there in another conflict.
Three boys stood before him, blocking the mouth of the alley. Their clothes were clean, their shoes shining even in the dim light. Everything about them screamed wealth.
The one in the center—Elijah Hale—had white hair that gleamed faintly in the darkness, and a pair of cold blue eyes that looked at Aiden as if observing a stray dog.
"I'll give you one last warning," Elijah said, his tone light but dangerous. "Hand over the game, and maybe I'll forget you exist."
Beside him stood a boy with tan skin and brown hair—Arthur—his face twisting into a sneer.
"You heard him, street rat. Don't make us beat it out of you."
The last one, Steve, kept silent, his expression uneasy, but he didn't move to stop the others.
Aiden's lips curved faintly. "Why would I sell you something I paid for?"
His voice was calm, almost polite. "You have money, don't you? Go buy your own."
After he said that, he turned around to leave, but at this moment, Arthur approached him.
Arthur's hand shot out, grabbing his shoulder. The grip was tight, arrogant.
While gripping Aiden's shoulder, Arthur said, "You'll regret it if you—"
Before he could complete the sentence, Aiden twisted his body sharply, his fist cutting through the air. The punch landed square on Arthur's face, sending him stumbling backward. The boy fell to the ground, clutching his bleeding nose and groaning in pain.
The other two froze for a heartbeat. Then Elijah's expression twisted.
"You bastard!"
He rushed forward, his movements wild. Aiden sidestepped and drove a kick into his stomach. The impact forced the air out of Elijah's lungs, and he bent over, gasping.
"Steve, get him!" Elijah barked, his voice strained.
Steve hesitated, then lunged. His punches were clumsy, heavy with desperation rather than skill. Aiden deflected one, dodged another, and countered with a sharp strike to the ribs. But Arthur had already recovered, and soon all three were on him at once.
The alley erupted into a fight—fists, curses, the dull sound of punching each other. Aiden fought with the precision of someone who had done it countless times before, each movement born from necessity rather than anger. He knew when to retreat, when to strike, and when to endure.
Still, three against one was no small thing. His breath grew ragged, his arms heavy. But he didn't stop until the last of them lay groaning on the ground.
Blood trickled from his lip. His vision swayed.
He stepped out of the alley, his body trembling slightly.
"Three at once…" he muttered, wiping his mouth. "That's my limit. If there had been any more, I would have been the one lying on the ground."
He made his way home—an old apartment with cracked walls and dim lights. The room was bare save for a bed, a table, and the faint hum of an old refrigerator.
Aiden collapsed onto the bed, his body aching from head to toe. Within moments, exhaustion claimed him, and he fell asleep.
But after a few hours he heard the sound of police sirens.
Sometime later, Aiden stirred awake and went to the window.
Down below stood three familiar figures—Elijah, Arthur, and Steve—bruised but smirking.
Beside them was a man in uniform. His build was broad, his expression cold, and his eyes—those same cold blue eyes—left no doubt who he was.
Deputy Marshal Roderick Hale.
Elijah's father.
Aiden's heart sank. He understood at once.
They were here for him, and they won't listen to any of his explanations.
They would punish him even if he told them that they started the fight. Who would believe an orphan over a police deputy's son? As his thoughts raced, he heard a knock on the door.
"Police! Open up, Aiden Cross! Open the door!"
His pulse quickened. He looked around, eyes darting to the small window at the back of his apartment.
The knock came again, louder this time.
"We know you're in there!"
He moved toward the small window at the back of his home and opened the window, leaped off it, and ran with full speed.
At this moment, a police officer noticed Aiden's escape and shouted.
"He's escaping!"
Others reacted to his shout and began chasing Aiden.
Aiden ran through the maze-like alleys, his feet splashing through puddles. The streets of the city were an open map in his mind. Every twist, every shortcut, every rooftop—he had memorized them all. He darted left into a narrow passage, vaulted over a fence, turned sharply through a broken gate, and vanished down another path.
The police followed, but they were slower, clumsier. The night was his ally, and he used it well.
Rain began to fall, soft at first, then heavier. The drops struck his face, mingling with sweat.
But even though he did his best, he could not escape being chased by so many people.
At this moment, he heard a gunshot.
Like a flash, a bullet pierced through his legs which leaving him growling in pain on the ground.
Pain tore through his leg. He glanced back and saw them—uniforms glistening under the rain. Roderick Hale stood among them, his gun still raised, eyes fixed on him.
"You should have stayed down," the man's cold voice echoed faintly.
Aiden bit down on the pain and forced himself forward. His body screamed, but he ran. One alley, then another. The world blurred around him.
At the end of the last alley, he saw the open street beyond. Lights.
He pushed himself harder.
But from the corner of his vision, something bright approached—too fast, too close.
Headlights.
A car.
Aiden barely had time to widen his eyes. The blinding light swallowed him whole.
Then—silence.
He lay on the cold ground, his body heavy, warmth spreading beneath him. His vision dimmed. The rain washed away the blood on his face. Lying on the ground in a puddle of blood.
At the moment of his death, he thought of his parents, then—If they had not died, would I have lived a better life?
If they were still here… would I have been happy?
His breath came slower, weaker. His eyes drifted shut.
Is this the end? At this moment, he took his last breath on earth.
A few moments later, he opened his eyes to only see darkness.
After a long moment, somewhere far away, a faint light flickered.
And through that light came a soft voice—distant, yet clear.
"Congratulations… It's a healthy boy."
Aiden Cross opened his eyes once more—
but this time,
It was not the same world.