"This is where you live?" Ali asked, his voice calm but his eyes scanning the rundown shell of a building in front of him. The warehouse looked like it would collapse if the wind blew too hard.
"This way," Melissa said quickly, already moving to the side where a broken slab of wood leaned against the wall like a makeshift door. She pushed it aside and ducked through the gap.
Ali followed, bending slightly to step through behind her. Inside, the place was barely more than an empty husk. The wooden walls leaked the night air through every crack. At the back, a tiny candle flickered, fighting a losing battle with the darkness. The floor was mostly bare except for a few filthy blankets spread out like nests for stray dogs.
"Melissa, you're back!" a small voice piped up from the shadows.
Ali looked down and saw her—Grace. A small girl, maybe seven or eight, dragging herself across the dusty floor with her skinny arms. Her legs lay useless behind her, limp and thin like broken sticks. She looked up at Melissa with a bright, innocent grin that didn't belong in this miserable place.
"Did you eat your fill?" Melissa asked as she knelt down, glancing at a corner where a half-open sack of beast meat sat. Ali recognised it immediately—one of the bags of meat his people had given out hours ago.
"YES!" Grace said, nodding eagerly. "I was so full I couldn't finish it! Melissa, I kept some for you too!"
Ali watched in silence. Dragging herself across the floor… It was a sorry sight.
"Melissa, you brought someone with you," Grace said suddenly. She pulled herself closer to Ali, peering up at him with big eyes, curious and fearless in a way only children could be.
"Grace, this is…" Melissa paused and looked at Ali, suddenly realising she didn't even know what to call him.
"A friend," she said quickly, giving Grace a gentle smile. "He's here to help us. Be nice to him, okay?"
"Hi, Friend!" Grace chirped, her grin wide despite her filthy face and tangled hair.
"Hello, Grace," Ali replied, his voice softer than it had been all night. "Was the food good?"
"Oh yes!" Grace said, nodding so hard her hair bounced. "It was the best. I was so happy when Melissa brought it. I wish my brother could try some too…" Her smile faded as she turned her head toward a dark corner of the warehouse, where a wall of blankets hid something.
Melissa followed her gaze and got up. She walked over and gently pulled a blanket aside, revealing the frail form of a young man lying motionless. He looked barely alive—skin stretched over bone, brown hair matted and filthy, purple bruises blotching his sickly pale skin.
Ali stepped forward and stood beside him. He pressed two fingers to the young man's wrist. 'Pulse is barely there… Weak, irregular. Lucky to be breathing', he thought, his eyes moving over the ruined body. Poison. Malnutrition. Infection. And— He turned the young man's head to the side, spotting faint marks along the neck. Fading bruises in the shape of fingers. 'Choking marks… Recent. Male grip so it couldn't be these two'.
Ali looked over his shoulder at Melissa and Grace. "You two want to look away?" he asked calmly.
"Okay," Melissa said softly, taking Grace's hand and turning them both away.
Ali ripped the rags off Oliver's body. It was worse up close—blackened tissue, open sores, skin eaten away by rot. He examined it all without a word, piecing it together in his mind. 'Poison… Malnourishment made it worse. But this… Someone's been poisoning him for a long time, maybe they grew frustrated recently and tried finishing the job with their owns hands'.
He pulled the blankets back around Oliver's body, covering the young man gently.
"Melissa," Ali said. "Does anyone else come here? Anyone besides you and your cousin?"
She turned, surprised by the question. "Well… There's an old man who brings medicine for Oliver. He's the only reason he's still alive. He used to know my father—he does it to repay my family for helping him long ago."
Ali nodded once. "Do you know where Arlo lives?" His tone was flat now, deadly cold beneath the calm.
"Yes," Melissa said, eyes wide. "He has a loan house on the east side. It's not far, but—"
"Take me there," Ali said, cutting her off.
"But why? Arlo is dangerous—he has men everywhere. That part of town belongs to him," Melissa said, her voice trembling again.
Ali looked down at her—no pity, no warmth this time.
"Take me there," he repeated, his voice soft but final.
"Grace, be careful and don't answer anyone except me," Melissa whispered firmly, bending down to brush a bit of hair away from Grace's face.
"Yes, yes, I know!" Grace said with a pout, waving her small hand to shoo her older cousin away like an annoying older sister.
Melissa let out a small breath and turned away, slipping through the gap in the boards with Ali following close behind. The cold night air hit her face, but Ali barely noticed the chill. 'My wrist burned near Oliver…' he thought as he glanced down at his hand.
Before Melissa could say a word, Ali stepped up behind her. In one swift motion, his arms wrapped around her legs and back, lifting her clean off the ground. Her breath caught in her throat—she found herself weightless, cradled in his arms like she weighed nothing.
"Just point me in his direction," Ali ordered, his mask inches from her stunned face. Their eyes locked—hers wide and shimmering in the moonlight, his black and bottomless.
Melissa's cheeks flushed crimson. Her pulse raced as she felt the warmth of his chest through her worn dress. She stammered, "T-That way…" She raised a shaky hand, pointing east—then gasped when Ali's muscles tensed under her.
AHHH!
A squeal slipped from her lips before she bit it back. Instinctively, her arms wrapped tight around his neck as Ali's legs bent—then blurred.
In a blink they were gone from the alley. The wind whipped Melissa's hair back as Ali blurred through the shadows of Obidos at a speed no normal human could comprehend. Before she even realised they'd moved, her eyes flew open to find them perched high on the rooftop of an old crumbling house.
Below them, flickering lanterns revealed a three-story wooden den. Thugs littered the property like roaches—some flipping knives in their hands, others leaning on doorframes laughing at some crude joke. The stench of cheap alcohol and smoke drifted up even to where they stood.
Melissa's nails dug into Ali's shirt. Her heart thumped hard—she knew these men. Every pair of eyes down there was a nightmare she'd spent years avoiding. But when she peeked up at Ali's eyes—calm, cold—her fear melted away like snow in the sun.
"You stay out here, understand?" Ali said, his voice so steady it made her chest tighten.
She nodded wordlessly, still clinging to him. Gently, Ali set her down on the rooftop. He didn't spare her another glance as he stepped off the edge and landed silent as a shadow in the dirt street below.
Immediately the nearest thug noticed him—his bloodshot eyes narrowed in confusion before his mouth split into an ugly grin.
"Who the fuck are you?" the biggest brute stepped forward, scratching his belly with his free hand while his other reached for the hilt of his chipped sword. "You got a death wish or something? Huh?"
Behind him, the others perked up, their crude laughter dying off as they sensed the tension. Twelve in total. They fanned out in a loose circle, blades scraping from sheaths, boots shifting in the dirt.
"I'm gonna gut you right here—"
The threat died in his throat. Ali didn't answer, didn't blink—he just kept walking forward.
The lead thug bared his yellow teeth and lunged with a roar—
THUD. THUD. THUD.
Twelve bodies dropped to their knees all at once, eyes bulging, hands clawing at their necks. Ugly choking noises filled the street as their windpipes collapsed under an invisible grip. One by one their limbs went limp, spines sagging like broken dolls, and they toppled face-first into the dirt.
Melissa's hand flew to her mouth to stop her gasp from echoing across the rooftop. 'They're dead… they're actually dead'. Her wide eyes dropped back to Ali, standing alone among the twitching corpses. He hadn't even drawn a weapon.
Ali exhaled quietly and raised his foot—
BANG!
His kick shattered the door inwards, wood splintering like matchsticks. Inside, the noise froze the raucous laughter and curses upstairs in an instant.
Ten minutes earlier…
Upstairs, in a room reeking of sweat and cheap perfume, Arlo sat spread-legged on a throne-like chair, his flabby thighs parted wide as a woman knelt under the desk between them. His teeth dug into his lower lip as he stared at the ceiling, eyelids half-shut.
At the side of the lavish office, a greasy man leaned against a cabinet, flicking a silver coin between his fingers.
"Arlo, why don't you just take the bitch? Look at the trouble she's caused you tonight," the lackey sneered, his voice full of lazy mockery.
Arlo didn't even glance at him. He just let his eyes roll back, the corner of his mouth curling into a smug grin.
"You idiot… You don't get it," Arlo drawled, his voice thick with pleasure.
"What's to get? You've had your dogs chasing her for years—just take her already!" the thug spat, annoyed.
Arlo finally leaned forward, grabbing the girl's hair under the desk, forcing her deeper until she gagged. He groaned, then leaned back again, chuckling breathlessly.
"It's not about the body, fool. It's about the thrill. The power. I want her to crawl to me—broken. Begging me to ruin her," he purred, a glint of sadistic hunger in his eyes. "You wouldn't understand. You're not me."
A soft crunch from the lower floors broke the moment. Arlo's eyes snapped to the door. His lackey paused mid-laugh.
Then—
BANG.
A roar of splintering wood echoed through the building. Footsteps. Then another sickening crack—and another.
"HEY, STO— AHHH!"
A dying scream from downstairs. Then silence—just footsteps, slow and deliberate, coming up the creaking stairs like the tread of death itself.
Arlo's blood ran cold. The prostitute pulled away from under the desk, terror on her face. The lackey dropped his silver coin.
Arlo's two henchmen shifted uneasily near the office door, their eyes darting to their boss.
Arlo bared his yellow teeth and snarled through his fear. He snatched up his trousers, yanking them up over his flabby thighs, then grabbed his curved sword from beside the chair. The blade hummed faintly, a sickly green light dancing along its edge—a meagre first-level aura. Weak, but on flesh and bone it was more than enough.
Arlo glared at his men, jaw clenched so tight a vein bulged in his neck. He didn't need to speak. The look said move. The closest thug swallowed hard, eyes wide like a cornered rat.
Slowly, with trembling fingers, he reached for the brass handle. His breath shook in his throat as his sweaty palm hovered inches away. He stared at the door as if it were the maw of a waiting beast.
His fingertips brushed the cold metal—then his brow furrowed. His eyes went wide. Where's my hand? The thought flickered in his mind as raw pain exploded up his arm.
SNAP
His forearm bent sideways like a snapped branch. Bone splintered through skin with a sickening crack, blood welling in a hot rush. His sword hand went limp, flopping useless at his side.
A choked, strangled whimper gurgled up from his throat—he couldn't even scream before he dropped to his knees.
The second thug, eyes bulging in horror, stumbled backward—his back hit the far wall with a dull thud. He turned to bolt for the window—
CRACK.
His knees twisted the wrong way under him, folding like wet parchment. His scream died in his chest when his shoulders snapped backward with a gruesome pop—both arms useless, bones protruding like jagged white knives.
Arlo could only stare. His mouth hung open in dumb disbelief as his men's bodies buckled and contorted like puppets with cut strings. Veins popped in their eyes as their necks twisted at impossible angles—heads lolling back until they faced him upside down.
Blood trickled from their nostrils and dripped from open mouths. Their eyes were wide and glassy—staring right at him even as life drained out.
They crumpled forward, faces hitting the stained carpet with soft, final thuds.
In the corner of the lavish office, the prostitute clamped both hands over her mouth. Her whole body shook like a leaf caught in a storm. She dared not breathe, dared not look toward the door, her eyes squeezed shut as if that would make her invisible.
Arlo's sword slipped from his trembling fingers and straight on the floor before leaning back on his desk, the faint green aura flickering out like a dying ember.
His wide, bulging eyes stayed glued to the door knob—waiting for it to turn.
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