"POLICE! DON'T MOVE! HANDS IN THE AIR!"
Deni and his crew turned pale instantly. They dropped their makeshift clubs, hands shooting into the air. But I remained still. The blinding glare of their flashlights seared into my eyes, bleaching the world white. My fists clenched. Inside, a primal darkness began to churn, reacting to the threat of the black iron leveled at my chest.
"Cops!" one of the men in black jackets hissed, eyes bulging with terror.
The massive white metal beast, its red and blue lights pulsing rhythmically, screeched to a halt. The wail was deafening. I seized the moment of chaos. I turned and bolted.
"Hey! Get him!" Deni's voice trailed off behind me.
My strides were long and powerful. My legs propelled me across the slick pavement. I heard their shouts and the frantic thud of boots behind me, but they were already losing ground. I banked right, slipping into a narrow alleyway. It was a sunless gulch, lit only by a single, flickering bulb hanging over a back door. The stench was sharp—rotting refuse, stagnant water, and urine. Mounds of black plastic bags towered on one side; rusted metal bins stood like silent sentinels on the other.
I kept running until I spotted a shadowed alcove behind a row of dumpsters. I pressed myself into the niche, my back meeting the cold, weeping brick. I held my breath. My heart rate remained steady, controlled. Theirs, however, was ragged and loud. They entered the alley, their pace slowing.
"Where is he?" Deni panted.
"He's gone, Den. Forget it. Not worth it for one damn apple," another replied.
"Bastard. I'm gonna look like an idiot in front of Pak Kardi," Deni muttered. I heard the metallic clang of him kicking a bin. The sound echoed through the alley like a gunshot. "Fine, whatever. Probably just some lunatic."
Their footsteps gradually retreated. Their voices faded into the city's background hum. I stayed where I was, sliding down to sit on the damp earth. I listened to the distant choir of the city: the roar of metal boxes, the chiming bells, the muffled drone of conversation. The scent of blood from my vision seemed to linger in my nostrils, mingling with the alley's decay. I closed my eyes and saw it again. The battlefield. The young soldier. The taste of blood. A dark, intoxicating thrill that was immediately followed by a wave of revulsion. Then, the woman's scream: "DARIUS! Stop!"
Who am I? What have I done? And more importantly, what had I been about to do to those thugs? I felt stronger than them. Stronger than everyone in this strange city. It wasn't an ego trip; it was a cold, objective fact. But that power came with a price—a creeping shadow. A terrible, gnawing thirst. I didn't want it, but I couldn't deny it was there. I had to learn this world. I had to master its rules and find a way to survive without letting the darkness consume me. I had to know why a woman in my dreams called my name with such unadulterated horror.
In the distance, the wail of the red-and-blue lights rose again, a banshee call for something else wounded in the night. I pulled my damp jacket tighter around my shoulders. Tonight, I would sleep here, among the trash and the rot. Tomorrow, my hunt for the truth would begin.
I woke in my hiding spot, tucked behind the rusted bins. The stench of refuse still hung heavy in the air, blended with the petrichor of a dying storm. My body was stiff, an ache settling into my joints. My stomach cramped—a sharp, predatory hunger clawing at my insides. I sat up, leaning against the damp brickwork. The alley was dim, the lone bulb above the service door casting long, sickly shadows. Water dripped from a leaking gutter, rhythmically hitting a puddle in the uneven ground. Nothing had changed. I was still alone. Still trapped in a world I didn't understand.
I had nothing. No destination. No allies. The only things I possessed were my name—Darius—and the jagged shards of a nightmare. The battlefield. The blood. The scream. I stood, brushing the grime from my soaked jacket. I had to move. I had to find food. But how? Yesterday's attempt ended in a manhunt. I didn't understand the commerce of this place. I'd seen people trade colored slips of paper for goods, but I had none. I didn't even know where they came from.
I stepped out of the shadows and onto a larger street. Twilight was falling. The sky was a bruised charcoal gray, and a thick fog began to descend, swallowing the tops of the stone towers. The tall iron lamps flickered to life, casting pools of amber light onto the wet asphalt. The metal boxes still rushed by, their headlamps carving paths through the mist. Their roar was a constant, industrial white noise.
I walked the sidewalk, scanning for anything edible, anything I could take without inciting another riot. But everything was barricaded behind glass and steel. I turned into a side street, narrower than the main road. The buildings here were shorter, older. Windows were shattered and boarded up. It felt hollow, abandoned. The air grew colder, wetter. Then, a sound broke the silence. Laughter and high-pitched shouts. I stopped, listening. Children.
A small pack of them rounded a corner, sprinting through the street. They were young—five or six, perhaps. Their clothes were thin and drenched from playing in the rain. One of them kicked a spherical object made of cloth and plastic—a ball. They laughed, chasing it. I watched them, a strange unease settling in my chest. To be out here, in the dark, in this hollow place... it felt dangerous. A fragmented memory flickered: children are to be protected. They are not to wander here.
"Why are these children out here in the dark?" I murmured. My voice was raspy, barely a ghost of a sound. But one of the boys, his hair short and matted with dirt, caught it. He stopped and turned toward me, his eyes widening.
"He called us weird!" he shouted to the others, his voice sharp with accusation.
I frowned. That wasn't what I meant. The other children stopped. They stared at me, their small faces a mix of suspicion and budding fear. "We're not weird!" a girl shouted. "We're just playing!" I wanted to explain, but the words felt like lead on my tongue. I was no orator. I just stood there, silent, watching them. The first boy turned and ran toward a small house at the end of the block. He threw open a peeling wooden door and screamed, "Pa! There's a guy calling us weird!"
Seconds later, the door swung wide. A tall, thick-set man stepped out. He raised a hand, pointing a finger at me like a weapon. "What the hell did you say to my kids?" he roared, his voice booming through the narrow street.
I didn't blink. I wasn't intimidated; I was merely annoyed. This was a tedious misunderstanding. "I was speaking to myself," I said, my voice flat and cold. "I didn't call your children weird. I only wondered why they were playing in the dark. It is unsafe."
The man approached, his gait heavy and erratic. The sharp, fermented stench of alcohol preceded him. "Don't you tell me how to raise my kids!" he growled. "Who are you? Some new thug? Looking for a handout?" I shook my head. "I am only passing through."
But he was too far gone in his rage to listen. His massive hand lunged for my throat, fingers curling to choke. My reflexes took over. I didn't have to think. I slipped the move effortlessly, my hand moving of its own accord to snatch his wrist mid-air. I felt the bone and sinew beneath his skin. Fragile. I could snap it like a dry twig. He gasped, his eyes bulging. He tried to pull away, but my grip was an iron vice.
"Keep your hands to yourself," I said, my voice a low, vibrating warning.
With a sharp shove, I sent him reeling. He stumbled over a puddle and crashed onto the wet ground. Filthy water splashed everywhere. He grunted, stunned and humiliated. The children watching from the periphery fell silent, paralyzed. I looked at him for a moment, ensuring he wouldn't try again. He just sat there, glaring, his breath coming in ragged gasps. I said nothing more. I turned and walked away, leaving the man and the terrified children behind. I had no business with them. I only wanted to eat.
But the encounter left a bitter taste in my mouth. The hair-trigger tempers. The violence simmering just beneath the surface—both in him, and in myself. I pushed deeper into the labyrinth of side streets. The fog thickened, veiling the world in a somber, shifting mystery. The streetlights barely pierced the gloom. My hunger was becoming a fever. I passed a fruit cart covered in tarpaulin. The scent was still there—sweet, teasing. But I remembered yesterday. I wouldn't be hunted again. I held back.
Then, another sound reached me. Not the laughter of children or the roar of machines. It was a woman's voice. High-pitched and jagged with terror.
"HELP! LET ME GO!"