01 - Prologue (1)
The mountain range loomed over the city like a sleeping titan, its jagged peaks silhouetted against a bruised purple sky. Down below, the city of Oakhaven didn't sleep; it festered. Deep in a narrow alleyway, tucked between two crumbling tenements, the air was thick with the smell of wet garbage and cheap tobacco. Harsher neon lights from the main district bled into the mouth of the alley, casting flickering shadows of magenta and electric blue that danced across the grime-streaked walls.
Two individuals were being cornered. Their heels caught on rusted pipes and discarded crates as they backed into the dead end. The brick wall behind them was cold and damp, offering no escape. Closing the distance were six street thugs, their faces twisted into masks of predatory amusement.
The leader of the pack was a man who looked like he had been forged in the city's gutters. A faded black cap was pulled low over his brow, and heavy, grease-stained chains rattled against his chest with every step. He rolled a half-burnt cigarette from one corner of his mouth to the other, never letting his gaze leave the heavy canvas bag one of the individuals clutched to their chest.
In his right hand, a switchblade flicked open with a sharp, metallic clack.
"Heh, no need to freak out, yeah? Just hand over the stuff, and no one has to get hurt," the leader said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. He waved the knife lazily, the blade catching a stray pulse of neon light.
Behind him, his cronies chuckled a jagged, ugly sound that echoed off the high walls. They began to fan out, blocking any hope of a desperate dash for the street.
The two individuals couldn't find their breath. Fear was a physical weight, pressing down on their lungs. One of them tried to shield the other, their body shaking so violently that their teeth literally chattered.
"Please..." one finally stammered, their voice cracking under the pressure. "We... we don't have any money. This bag... it's just food. Scraps from the market. This is what we have to survive the week with... please."
The thugs paused for a heartbeat, looking at one another. Then, as if on cue, they burst into a chorus of mocking laughter.
"The children!" one of the thugs jeered, slapping his knee. "Listen to this saint!"
The leader didn't laugh. He just stepped closer, his boots crunching on broken glass. He leaned in, the scent of stale smoke and rot hitting the two individuals' faces. He reached out a scarred hand, fingers curling like talons toward the strap of the bag. "I don't care if you're feeding orphans or God himself. If it's in my alley, it's mine."
"Excuse me..."
The voice was quiet, almost hesitant, but it cut through the laughter like a razor.
The thugs froze. The leader stopped his hand mid-air and slowly turned his head toward the entrance of the alley.
A figure stood there. They looked remarkably ordinary at first glance, draped in an oversized black hoodie that seemed to swallow their frame. Their dark hair was a bird's nest of messy tangles, shadowing a face that looked bone-deep tired. They looked like someone who hadn't slept in a week heavy bags under their eyes and a slumped posture.
But as they stepped forward, the moonlight caught their face. Beneath the shadow of their hood, their eyes didn't reflect the neon or the dark. They glowed with a soft, haunting crimson a deep, bloody red that seemed to pulse with a life of its own.
"Do you happen to know the way around here?" the figure asked, their voice devoid of fear.
The thugs exchanged looks of pure confusion.
"Huh?!" one of them blurted out, a massive brute with a scarred lip. "Who is this skinny kid? Hey, brat, you lost? This ain't a playground."
The leader spat his cigarette onto the wet pavement and turned fully away from the two individuals at the wall. He stalked toward the newcomer, his chains clinking an ominous rhythm. He stopped inches from the figure, bringing the point of his knife up until it hovered just a fraction of an inch from the figure's throat.
"You got a death wish or something, hoodie?" the leader growled. "We're in the middle of business here. Move along before I find out what color your insides are."
The figure in the hoodie didn't flinch. They didn't even look at the knife. Instead, their gaze drifted past the leader, settling on the two terrified people huddled at the end of the alley. They saw the bag of food, the fear on their faces, and the cruel smiles of the men surrounding them.
In an instant, the tiredness in their expression sharpened into something cold. Something dangerous.
"So," the figure said, a slow, thin smile spreading across their lips. "You guys are trash."
The leader's eyes widened. "What did you say?"
"I mean," the figure replied, their crimson eyes brightening as if fueled by the man's anger, "you guys are absolute shit. Bottom of the barrel. Stealing food from people? That's a special kind of pathetic."
"Tch. You really are out of your mind," the leader shouted, his face flushing a deep, angry red. "I'm gonna enjoy carving that smile off your face!"
He lunged, thrusting the knife toward the figure's chest with a murderous snarl.
He never finished the movement.
With a blur of motion that the human eye could barely track, the figure moved. They didn't step back; they stepped in. Their hand shot out, catching the leader's wrist with the force of a hydraulic press.
CRACK.
"Gah!" The leader's scream ripped through the alley as his radius snapped. The knife slipped from his nerveless fingers, clattering onto the pavement with a hollow clink.
The figure didn't let go. They twisted the arm further, forcing the man to his knees. The leader rolled on the ground, clutching his shattered wrist and howling in a mixture of shock and agony.
"Hey!" the scarred brute shouted, his face pale with sudden alarm. "What are you doing? Get him!"
The remaining five thugs didn't hesitate. The shock wore off, replaced by a surge of collective rage. They didn't see a person anymore; they saw a threat that needed to be extinguished. Two of them pulled brass knuckles from their pockets, while another gripped a heavy lead pipe.
"Kill him!" the leader choked out from the ground.
One by one, they charged. The brute swung a heavy fist aimed at the figure's temple, but the figure simply leaned their head to the side, the punch whistling past their ear. In the same motion, they drove a knee into the man's midsection. The air left the brute's lungs in a violent wheeze as he folded like a piece of paper.
The figure in the hoodie looked up, the crimson glow in their eyes now leaving faint trails in the dark air as they moved. They weren't tired anymore. They looked like they were just getting started.