At the end of the alley, where rust-red bricks met a slice of open sky, the sunset poured itself out in a molten, viscous color. Light spilled, not merely reflecting, but gilding the sagging cables and chimneys, catching in the puddles and painting the air with a calm, dust-gold hush. For a moment, the dirty alley actually seemed almost holy, an accidental, silent cathedral of warm light and quiet breath.
Then the tranquility snapped.
A sharp, heavy thud echoed off the walls, the sickening sound of flesh meeting force, sudden and undeniable. The soft glow of the sunset still lingered, but it now waged war with the harsh, primal rhythm of violence unfolding in the shadows. The sound of hard, rhythmic punches colliding against yielding flesh continued in a steady, brutal melody.
A lean figure stood motionless, eyes closed, the corners of his lips curved ever so slightly in fastidious pleasure, pleasure derived from the sonorous destruction of a frail teen pummeled by three hulking boys.
It looked as though the pained grunts and desperate cries for mercy were a rare, delicate balm, soothing a raging demon trapped deep in his soul.
With a soft, almost theatrical sigh, the figure's lips parted. "Stop!" he whispered. The command was so light, so effortless, yet the punches ceased as if a conductor had lowered his baton.
The figure opened his eyes, a chilling, reflective metal-grey shade and began to saunter leisurely towards where the gruesome beating had just ceased. His gait was fluid, giving the impression he was floating above the filth.
He dropped effortlessly to his heels, exhibiting a grace that shouldn't belong in such a place. He then lifted a pale, slender finger, a delicate instrument, and used it to tilt up the victim's chin. "What's your name?" he asked, the sound low.
The pummeled teen twitched and trembled, pain shivering through his frame, but managed to squeeze a reply from his swollen lips: "Luke, Luke Yearwood."
"Be sure to watch where you step next time, Luke. I only spare once." The serene youth offered the warning with the mild inflection one might use to discuss the weather, then rose to his full height in one smooth, unhurried motion.
He produced a clean handkerchief and used it to dust his hands gently, a minimal, almost ceremonial gesture. He folded the cloth with meticulous precision before tucking it back into his pants pocket, his hands resting there as if prepared for a portrait.
He cast one last, mildly disdainful glance at the messy tableau before turning and walking away with a measured, aristocratic pace, a grace akin to a king who found the world beneath his feet a mildly irritating inconvenience.
The three buff boys exchanged satisfied, toothy snickers at their prey and fell in silently behind the gentle youth, their heavy footsteps contrasting sharply with his near-silent departure.
" You're lucky he let you go after only this much, most people don't survive poison ivy. Better be grateful runt." They echoed as they left Luke in a sickening cocktail of blood, sweat, snot, and what smelt ominously like urine.
The name Poison Ivy resounded in his mind. "Isn't that the name of a poisonous plant?" He thought. He didn't have to think to hard to know why someone would bear such a name and he could only curse his luck for accidentally stepping in a gang members foot while walking on the street.
Minutes stretched into an hour before Luke managed to haul himself up, using the trash cans and the unyielding brick wall, each inch an act of excruciating will. He made a futile, painful attempt to look 'proper' by brushing the dust off his pants, but instantly realized the gesture was pointless.
Heaving a painful sigh that shuddered through his ribs, he ignored the broken frames of his glasses, grabbed his backpack that was tossed aside, and began to limp out of the alley onto an open street illuminated by the stark, clinical glow of a streetlight.
Through his dulling senses, he saw his friend, Lydia, running toward him, her movement frantic, worry violently etched on her face. The last thing he remembered was Lydia demanding what happened, and his own strained, weak reply: "If I told you I stepped on poison Ivy and survived… would you believe me?" And then everything went dark.
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"Master Feng won't be happy, Ivy. You shouldn't have caused trouble on your first day back." A broad-shouldered man who looked to be in his early twenties said with a gruff voice, his hands immediately finding their place settled on his hips, an unconscious gesture of mild frustration.
He was dressed simply, a plain, long-sleeved shirt and jeans, looking facially average, but undeniably clean and simple, charming in his reliable way.
"I didn't cause trouble, Thorn. He stepped on me and dirtied my shoes, they're quite expensive, you know," Poison Ivy retorted, leaning back comfortably on the sofa. He offered a small, cool smile that barely touched his eyes, a gesture of polished indifference.
Thorn pinched his brows together sharply, the gesture deepening the lines of fatigue on his face, and walked off, his steps heavy. He clearly felt that talking any further would cause him a profound headache.
Alone, the manufactured smile instantly vanished from Ivy's face, replaced by a deep, unsettling stillness. He opened his eyes slowly and stared blankly at the ceiling for a moment, the metal-grey surface reflecting the light.
He was back in this city that invoked memories of his cowardice and failure, it irked him and made his blood boil. When the nerdy kid had stepped in in the street earlier, he just couldn't hold back the anger the city brought him and he just used the boy as a stress relief...unfortunately.
Without hurry, he stood and headed towards a drawer.He pulled it open and reached in, his fingers moving with a deliberate reverence to take out an old photo. It was a badly burnt picture of a family. The faces were already discolored and faded, yet Ivy caressed the silhouettes with his thumb gently, a ghost of affection.
He closed his eyes and clenched the photo to his chest, trembling slightly, the only outward sign of the torrent of anger, sadness, and grief raging within.
"Forgive me…" he whispered, the sound laced with genuine pain. "I'll make it right…"
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{In a neighborhood in the suburbs of Emerald City…}
An unconscious boy, his face swollen and his body covered in map-like bruises, lay on the bed in a simple room. It was not lavish, but meticulously clean, suggesting care and dedication.
The boy stirred, a wince crossing his features, and slowly opened his eyes, which stung from the sudden brightness.
"Good morning, Luke. How are you feeling?" a sweet but firm voice inquired, cutting through the silence of the room.
Luke turned to the voice and sighed inwardly, acutely aware of how horrible he looked… and felt.
"I'm alright, Snow. You don't have to look at me like I'm about to die, alright? I'm really fine," he insisted lightly, only to have to compress his lips immediately, wincing as the slight exertion sent pain shooting through him.
"How can you be alright? You look like absolute hell and sound like your insides are being spun into rope. Lydia said you were a mess of blood and limping yesterday," Heather stated, folding her arms across her chest, a protective, slightly accusatory posture.
She had finished her night shift and hurried back immediately that morning upon hearing the news.
"I've told you repeatedly to stay out of trouble, yet you went ahead to start a fight with those ruffians from who knows where. Do you know how worried we were when you didn't wake up the whole night?" she continued, her voice tightening with a mix of scolding and deep concern.
Luke stared at her slightly furrowed dark brows, her clear grey eyes that were focused on him with a magnetic blend of concern and disdain, and her small, plump red lips that were currently pursed in palpable displeasure.
He took a moment, gathering his scattered thoughts and the necessary breath, before he responded, his voice thick with injustice: "Fight? What fight? I was beaten till I couldn't tell if I was still on Earth or if I had died already and ended up in hell, okay?" Luke delivered the monologue with a genuine, aggrieved expression.
Heather looked at him for a few seconds, her expression shifting, before she burst into ringing laughter. She threw her head back, a sound of unburdened joy that seemed incongruous with the shabby room.
"Hey! Saying you fought is a generous way of giving you face, alright? Aren't you ashamed you were beaten so badly, huh? I bet you didn't even manage to wrinkle their clothes… hahaha."
Luke was almost momentarily blinded by her sheer, crystalline radiance. He found he couldn't even register the specific content of her mocking laughter or her ridicule.
The only clear thought that resonated through his throbbing skull was: "Damn, she really is Snow White." And indeed she was, in beauty and in the quiet shadow of tragedy.