After the morgue, Elias went nowhere.
He walked.
The streets passed by without logic, lit by tired neon signs and advertising screens far too bright for cities already dead. The world kept moving around him—indifferent, perfectly functional.
He was not.
The pain in his body was nothing compared to what settled deeper inside, slowly. An absence. A void so vast it smothered every thought before it could even form.
He found refuge in alcohol.
At first, to sleep.
Then, to forget.
Then, because feeling nothing had become preferable to feeling anything at all.
Days blurred together. Nights too. Elias stopped finishing his drinks, then stopped counting them. He spoke little. Ate rarely. His reflection in shop windows became a stranger.
He wanted to die.
Not out of courage.
Out of exhaustion.
But his body refused to give in.
So he found another way to disappear.
The underground arenas.
Smoke-filled basements, suffocating. Concrete circles lit by flickering spotlights. Places where screams drowned out the music, and bets decided a man's worth.
Elias signed up without asking questions.
In every fight, he let himself be hit.
Fists. Boots. Bones.
He took it all, without defending himself, without striking back. His body became a silent offering. A slow way to fade.
Until the rage rose.
Always the same brutal surge.
Always the same breaking point.
Then a single blow landed.
Sharp.
Precise.
And the other man fell.
Again.
Again.
Rumors began to spread. They spoke of a man who did not die. Of a fighter who seemed to seek his own end—and never find it.
Winter came.
On a night colder than the others, Elias entered the arena already hollowed out. Blows rained down. His vision blurred. Blood ran over his lips.
Then he saw it.
On the ground.
A white leaf.
His heart clenched violently.
He slowly lifted his gaze toward the crowd.
A man stood there, motionless. His stare was hard. His smile too calm. And on his skin, visible even in the shadows… a tattoo.
The symbol.
The one Elias had seen before the fire.
Before death.
Before Tiana.
He left the center of the ring, ignoring his opponent. Walked toward the man, carried by something older than hatred.
He was almost there.
The blow came without warning.
A metal knuckle.
A brutal impact.
Elias collapsed.
Through the haze, he saw the man laugh. He hadn't recognized him. The beard, the scars… Elias was already dead to him.
The darkness returned.