The motorcycle's motor was ticking as it cooled down against the hard and unyielding wall, the concrete barrier that made my brief escape seem pointless.
The police sirens approached in a manner similar to a howl of wolves, and red and blue lights strobing across the wall scarred by graffiti were painting the night accusingly.
My body was in extreme pain; there were wounds with blood flowing from them like from demonic claws and talons, blood that was soaking my clothes, and every cut was feeling like molten iron was poured into flesh.
I had nothing left to run and nothing left to fight.
The trochlopes or the aircraft with the powerful lights and the noisy machines were above me, while the squad cars that were surrounding me had their doors opened and policemen coming out with their guns fired, one officer slamming his door and the next one doing that.
I first showed my hands going up very slowly, the sword falling from my hands with a noise, which was the noise of a surrender to the asphalt, that was a sound that more than any shout could ever do echoed my defeat. The rough policemen took hold of me and they did not care how hard they did it when they were twisting my arms behind my back; they pulled my hands different ways when they were putting the handcuffs on me and it was difficult to separate them from the skin that was already raw.
They pushed me into the police car that was nearest to me and my feet were dragging, thus blood was being lost in dark streams behind me. The back door of the police car opened wide like a mouth and they forced me inside; my body fell into the seat. The crimson blood was surrounding the vinyl upholstery and it was staining it without any chance of the stain being removed, the strong and metallic smell was thick and personal in the small space.
One police officer was lent against the window, making sure that his face was on the part where nobody could see him and he was using the hot air from his mouth as the contorted face of a man filled with hateful feelings. He said in a very unpleasant tone
"We all are paying a price because of devils like you"
and then he slammed the door almost as if he was trying to knock my bones out of their place.
The ride turned into my being a part of the scenery; the pain and the flickering streetlights merged with my consciousness.
The fractured skyline of Tokyo was gradually disappearing as they pulled me deeper into the city's underbelly—not to a regular police station but to the Asylum.
That huge building on the outskirts, a monument to the old powers, was now, under Kinard's rule, a black site prison for the "irreducible threats."
In whispers, it was referred to as the Abyss: a place where the uncatchables disappeared, where tortured screams were heard through the fortified walls forever, and where despair was as thick as the smoke coming from the devils' dead bodies.
We had reached there at the time when the sun was disappearing behind the horizon, and the huge building was wrapped in light of the fading orange—an enormous creature made of concrete and steel, and the barbed wire showing a glitter like thorns in the dying sky.
The Asylum stood with barred and unlit windows, and its shadow was swallowing the dusk. The guards dragged me out of the vehicle, handcuffs around my wrists, and then forced me to the gate which, with a loud creaking, opened just like the mouth of an ancient sea monster.
The moment I stepped into the yard, the air was pungent with the odor of sweat and despair.
Huge prisoners, bodybuilders covered with tattoos that looked like veins of steroids-fed muscles, had temporarily stopped their activities. Some were playing basketball on the worn-out court; the ball was bouncing, the sound echoing; others were lifting dumbbells and making grunts in unison, their veins popping out like ropes under skin.
The moment they cast their eyes on me, their looks were of ice and hunger.
Of course in there eyes i was the one who took demons on the Earth.
I was taken through a maze of halls, which were very bright due to the overhead fluorescent lights buzzing like mad bugs, at the same time, creating very contrasting light and darkness on the walls that were old and peeling with scars of scratches made by claws—human and animal.
Inmates leaned against the bars of their cells, their faces showing the utmost disgust, and their fists banging on metal in an uproar of hatred.
"KILL HIM! KILL HIM! KILL HIM!"
The chant rose like a ritual invocation, shaking the ground beneath me, and giving more power to my suffering.
The fanaticism of the crowd was evident in their spitting, burning eyes—the same mob psychology which had turned from rooting for Akira to asking for our death, simply due to the lies that Father had planned.
We went further into the isolation wing, where a huge metal door awaited us—it was as thick as a vault and reinforced against those with powers like mine. The warden, a scarred monster jingling keys like a chained animal, picked out the largest one.
The lock was released with a loud tung, metal scraping against metal, and the door opened slowly on hinges that groaned pitifully during the transition.
I moved forward—but then I stopped.
There, in the scarcely lit cell, with only one dim flickering bulb giving light, Akira was there.
My brother, flesh and blood made in the same hellfire, his being hitting me with a force like a physical blow—tall, stubborn, and with that familiar burning intensity in his gaze. And next to him was Yura, the girl I always saw her with Akira, might be his lover or obsessed friend.
But there was another one: a girl in a corner, lost in darkness, her immense black wings folded against her back like a soft silk of night.
The cop at my back growled and shoved his foot against my back. The push made me fall, my equilibrium lost, hitting the rough concrete ground. My hands hit the ground first, new blood coming out from reopened wounds, the impact running through me like a lover's rough claim—pain converting to something sharper, more instinctual.
They took off my handcuffs with mocking swiftness, the sound of the metal parting, then they banged the door. The tung resonated again, marking our confinement.
Akira was quick as a flash, dropping to his knees next to me, his powerful hands gently placing my wounded head on his lap as if he was not so furious after all.
The fingers of his big hand started to play with the hair that was matted with blood, the touch being possessive and protective—like the affection of a big brother but we still same in age but mixed with something deeper and darker, a bond that was almost forbidden because of the pain that they had experienced together.
"Who did this to you?" he shouted, voice low and furious, eyes glittering with the promise of death.
I gave a pained smile, the pain pulsing in the same rhythm as my heartbeat.
"It's none of your business," I barely spoke, the blood and the defiance mingling in my mouth as if they were one.
The winged girl from the corner came into the conversation, her voice soft-sweet like honey and whispering silk that slid down my spine and enveloped me.
"These are the wounds made by demon claws."
The creature's eyes—old, wise—looked into mine, her wings moving with a gentle rustle that was not unlike the stirring of the air.
Bafflement mixed up my confusion with the fog in my mind.
"You are a fallen angel... but why and how can I see you?" I said, as if the curtain separating the world of the living and the dead were about to be drawn back at this accursed place.
She gave a slight nod and a very wicked smile.
"It's merely the consequence of transgressing laws."
Akira's hand stayed in my hair, caressing softly, and every stroke sent unpleasant currents through my injured body—a touch that was both gentle and electrified, bringing back to memory our twisted childhood, the lines that divided us blurred by the heat of survival.
"How many were they?" he asked, voice lowering to half a question and almost turning into a loving whisper.
I gave a half smile through the pain.
"Around hundred, I guess."
Trying to push his strong hold, I attempted to stand—pride demanding it—but fatigue let me down, my legs giving way under me and the world spinning around me.
He caught me with no effort, his arms encircling my body, drawing me against him in a hold that was strong as rock, our bodies close to each other in the faint light. His warmth was pouring out of him, and his breath on my neck was a risky sort of warmth.
"Yuna, please heal him," he said, looking directly at the angel whose eyes were filled with that pure, protective big-brother love—the darkness we both carried made it protective, consuming, and also a little edgy.
I could only chuckle feebly and say, "Well, now I know that the angel is called Yuna."
Yuna turned her head slightly toward Yura who was silently giving her permission as her wings were slightly pulled back in respect. Yura nodded, her eyes on me inscrutable—was it jealousy? desire? The air was thick with unsaid tensions, the cell was a pressure cooker of past loves and new ones.
Yuna stepped forward, graceful and like a being from the other world, and took her place next to me kneeling. A halo of light was around the hands that were about to heal me as she placed them over my body without actually touching it.
All of a sudden, I felt how green energy was bursting out of my wounds—warm, invasive, like a lover's tongue tracing the scars—every ripped inch of my flesh was at least for a moment under the healing power's delicate caress.
The agony transformed into delight, a stream of healing which was almost akin to lust, life was coming back in waves which at the same time were energizing my willpower... and provoking deeper cravings.
My skin was closing up like I had never been hurt by either a beast or knife, and energy was flowing in my veins like liquid fire.
No sooner had the strength returned, than instinct kicked in. I directed my attention inward, calling forth the void—teleportation lashing out like dark lust, ready to take me out of this prison.
Nevertheless, Akira was quicker. He moved his hand to my neck, his fingers gripping tightly as if he was claiming possession, his thumb on my pulse in a way that sent shivers down my spine that were against our law.
A small knife—cold, sharp—was pressing against my throat, making a tiny incision from which blood flowed slowly, hot and teasing.
"Don't move,"
he hissed through clenched teeth, his voice a soft but dangerous promise, and he was staring into my eyes with such intensity that it was more painful than any physical injury.