I cut through the alley behind the old ash boiler, still half-expecting to hear footsteps. But nothing comes. No footsteps. No voice. Just that gut-deep twist that says I'm not as alone as the street wants me to believe.
It's the same every time. Hunger first, then paranoia. But paranoia's earned its seat at my table.
I make it three steps into the next alley before I know I've made a mistake.
There's a man standing at the far end, blocking the exit. Lean, long-limbed, head down with his hoodie shadowing most of his face. He looks like the others around here, worn thin by too many nights and not enough money. But something about the way he's holding himself is off. People in the Ring don't square their shoulders like that. They don't wait that still.
I stop walking. My boots sink into the concrete, loose chunks shifting under the weight. Ahead, he still hasn't moved. Just stands there, he belongs here and I don't.
He lifts his head, slow and deliberate, it takes effort. Maybe it hasn't been lifted in a while. His face catches the light and I see too much, cheeks stretched too tight over bones, eyes like smudges of coal. All pupil, no soul.
He shouldn't be standing, or breathing, let alone walking. But here he is, waiting for little old me.
"Don't," I say. Steady, a hint of bored. My hands stay in my coat pockets, one wrapped around the broken bottle I've been sleeping beside for a week. I wrapped it in cloth to keep it from gutting the lining. Funny how the things that protect you still want to cut.
He steps forward.
I pull the bottle.
He lunges.
I twist to the side and his arm slams into the wall where my head used to be. Brick cracks, dust sifts down. The smell of mildew and rust fills the air. I don't wait, step in close, grab his hoodie, and drag the jagged edge of the glass across his shoulder.
The skin gives, but not like it should. No warm rush of blood, just a thick line of something dark that doesn't look like it belongs in a body. It slides down his chest, slow and slick, clinging to the fabric like tar.
He grunts, more annoyed than hurt, and whips his arm around toward my ribs. I duck, barely, and stumble back out of reach, bottle still raised.
He watches me now. Smiling. He's seen how this ends, and it's not with me walking away.
He lunges again. I duck, catch a shoulder to the ribs, and hit the ground with enough force to knock the air out of me. He's on me in a second, one hand pressing into my chest, fingers tightening around my coat. My frozen wrist won't move.
"Wasn't supposed to fight," he growls, low and crackling.
"Then they didn't do their homework," I grit out.
My right arm still works, that's all I need. I drive the bottle into his ribs.
The sound he makes rips through the alley, making the walls feel too narrow. He jerks back, staggering to his feet. I roll, coughing, and push myself upright with one hand. My fingers are slick, shoulder's throbbing.
But I'm not done.
He stands a few feet away, hunched and panting, head twitching trying to realign himself. That black liquid's still leaking from the hole in his side, it hits the concrete and sizzles.
"You're different," he mutters.
I pick up a length of rusted pipe and fling it at his face.
The duck comes, but not fast enough. It clips his temple with a dull thwack and sends him stumbling. That moment, just a second of off-balance, of staggered footing, is all the opening I need.
I drive into him with everything I've got. Straight into his chest with my full weight, shoulder first. We slam into the brick wall behind him. His head cracks back, I feel it reverberate through the wall, through me. His whole body slumps.
I drive my knee into his face before he can think about recovering.
Now he drops.
Hard.
I stand over him, chest heaving, knuckles split. The glass is still in my other hand, coated in something that most definitely, is not blood.
Run you idiot. I'm pleading with myself now, Jesus.
Nope, I watch instead.
His chest rises, falls, then stills. I nudge him with my foot, not dead I don't think. But not breathing either. More like, paused.
Whatever he is, it's not built like me.
The street behind me is still silent. I back out of the alley slow, eyes scanning every window, every rooftop. My wrist is still frozen, I tuck it close to my ribs, press it tight trying to warm the feeling back into it.
That presence, the one from earlier, is bacak. Only this time it's stronger.
And whoever they are, they're not worried about hiding.
They want me to know.