The rat claimed half of Elias's left thumb before he crushed it against the wall—a transaction of flesh and violence that seemed, in retrospect, almost fair.
Blood spurted. Warm, adhesive, unutterably his. And through it all, he smiled.
That smile—ah, that smile. It stretched across his face like a scar of birth, wide and fixed, teeth clenched in perpetual rictus. One might imagine some cosmic surgeon had sewn it there in the delivery room and forgotten, or perhaps deliberately refused, to remove the threads.
The rat squeaked its final protest and stilled.
Elias wiped his hand on his shirt, already crimson with the archaeology of old blood and ancient grime. He had been seven the first time someone broke that thumb. Sixteen years old now. Not that he kept count. In Ashwell, birthdays were merely another day to survive, nothing more. The thumb had never properly healed. It pointed inward, crooked as a permanent reproach.
Elias stood no taller than 1.69 meters. Thin as a nail, ribs visible through his torn shirt like the bars of some internal prison. His arms bore the cartography of violence—bruises, scars ancient and recent. Black hair, too long, fell in greasy strands across gray eyes. Eyes that had grown old before their time. Not the eyes of an adolescent. The eyes of someone who had already witnessed the worst that existence could offer.
But his hands—those told the real story.
Small, delicate, almost feminine in their proportions. Yet covered in scars. Burns. Knife wounds. Bites (human, not animal). Each finger carried a history. Each palm concealed a betrayal.
He bit into the moldy bread he'd stolen from a corpse two streets over. It tasted of ash and despair. Perfect.
"Another beautiful day," he muttered through his mouthful.
Footsteps. Heavy. Rapid.
Elias froze. He knew those footsteps. Military boots. Three men, possibly four. Varak's debt collectors.
Shit.
He'd borrowed fifty copper pieces two weeks ago to buy antibiotics for a girl from the slums who'd been coughing blood. She died anyway. And he'd spent the money for nothing.
The footsteps approached.
Elias rose slowly, back against the wall. Three possible exits. The alley to the left—blocked by debris. The broken window to the right—too narrow. The fire escape behind—rusted, unstable, but feasible.
A man turned the corner. Tall. Built like a wall. Shaved skull. Snake tattoo crawling up his neck. Baseball bat in his right hand.
He smiled upon seeing Elias.
"Well, well. The little liar."
Elias smiled in return—that automatic smile, that survival reflex.
"Hello, Gregor. Beautiful day, isn't it?"
Gregor spat on the ground.
"Varak wants his money."
"I know. I have it. I was just about to come see him."
Lie.
Automatic. Instinctive. Like breathing.
Gregor's eyes narrowed.
"You have the money?"
"Of course. Fifty pieces, plus interest. Seventy-five total, right?"
Gregor advanced one step.
"Show me."
Elias didn't move. His brain raced at full speed. Three seconds to find an exit. Two seconds. One.
"It's in my pocket. Wait, I'll show you."
He slipped his hand into his pocket. Empty. Obviously. But his fingers found something—a shard of glass. Sharp. Perfect.
Gregor waited, bat raised.
Elias withdrew his hand. Empty.
"Ah, damn. I must have left the purse at my place. You know what? I'll be back in five minutes, I swear."
Gregor growled and swung his bat.
Elias dove. The bat whistled above his head, shattered against the brick wall. Fragments of stone exploded.
Elias rolled, regained his feet, sprinted toward the fire escape.
"GRAB HIM!"
Two more men materialized from nowhere. Elias climbed the steps three at a time. The rusted metal groaned under his weight. One step gave way. His foot plunged through. He caught himself, continued.
Top. Flat roof. No other exit.
Perfect. Just perfect.
The three men climbed behind him.
Elias looked around. The neighboring roof—five meters distant. Maybe six. Doable. Perhaps.
He stepped back. Gathered momentum.
And jumped.
Wind screamed in his ears. His arms beat the air. For a fraction of a second, he flew.
Then he landed. Badly. His knee cracked. Searing pain. He rolled, rose limping.
From the other side, Gregor roared:
"YOU CAN'T RUN FOREVER, LITTLE LIAR!"
Elias smiled, panting.
"I know."
He descended from the roof via a ladder, dropped into another alley. Deserted. Silent.
He leaned against a wall, knee throbbing with pain, hand bleeding.
And he burst into laughter.
Light laughter. Joyful. Completely inappropriate.
Because this was his life. Lie. Flee. Survive. Begin again.
He didn't even have the money. He had nothing. Just this idiotic smile and a supernatural ability to lie without blinking.
He thought back to that girl. The one he'd borrowed the money for. What was her name? Anna? Anya? He couldn't remember anymore.
She'd died three days later. Fever. Infection. Even with antibiotics, nothing would have changed. But at least he'd tried.
And now he had a debt.
Story of my life.
He straightened, limping toward nowhere in particular. The sun declined. The sky turned a dirty orange. Ashwell still stank—garbage, piss, despair.
And then something moved in the shadows.
Elias froze.
It wasn't a rat. Too large. Too... strange.
A dark shape. Humanoid. But not human. It glided along the wall, silent as living ink.
Elias blinked.
The shape vanished.
He frowned.
I'm hallucinating. Too much stress. Too many blows to the head.
But an icy sensation crawled up his spine. A sensation he knew well. A sensation he'd felt only once in his life.
Four years ago. At the hospital. When he'd died.
Well, almost died.
Elias shook his head, trying to dispel the memory. But it always returned. Like a scar that refuses to heal.
The overdose. The doctors. The girl who prayed.
He didn't know her name. He remembered her tears. Her clasped hands. Her trembling voice.
"Please, save him. Please."
Why had she prayed for him? They didn't even know each other. They hadn't even been from the same slum.
But she had prayed. And something had answered.
Elias closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe calmly.
Not now. Not this memory. Not today.
But it was too late.
The world exploded in golden light.