That's how I ended up here—body bruised, blood spilling down my face, vision blurring at the edges. My muscles scream every time I breathe. Dust from the collapsed wall chokes the air, mixing with the metallic scent of blood. The neon lights above flicker through the haze, painting the alley in sick shades of blue and red.
And then there's him.
The monster.
That ominous, calm aura radiating from his body feels suffocating. Every step he takes toward me echoes like a countdown to my death. My instincts roar at me to move—to crawl, to run, to do something—but my body refuses to listen. I can only watch as he approaches, coat swaying lightly in the night breeze, his gaze cold enough to freeze blood.
"It seems the rumors about you were exaggerated," he says, voice flat but sharp enough to cut through the smoke. "How disappointing."
He stops right in front of me, crouching down. I can feel his presence pressing down on me like a mountain. His eyes—gray and lifeless—scan me as if I'm some failed experiment.
He places a gloved hand on my blood-soaked shirt. The touch is light, almost gentle, yet it makes my heart pound like thunder.
"Now I regret sending those hitmen after you," he whispers. "What a waste of money."
Hitmen?
The word hits harder than the punch that threw me through the wall.
What did he mean by that? Why would someone like him send a group of thugs after me just because of rumors? And the card I found—the black one marked with A.A.O—was that connected to him?
A thousand questions spiral through my mind, but I can't afford to chase them. My focus needs to be on survival. Every instinct I've trained screams escape, but my body's wrecked. I'm cornered, outmatched, and one move away from dying.
What do I do?
Then—
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Three gunshots tear through the air, deafening in the enclosed alley. The man jerks his head to the side, reacting instantly. His body blurs, dodging left, but not fast enough—one bullet grazes his cheek. A thin line of blood drips down his face.
He stops moving, his expression unchanged but his eyes… his eyes sharpen.
"I see why you haven't returned yet, Henry," a familiar voice calls out from the darkness beyond the alleyway.
The silhouette steps into the neon light, revealing blue jeans, a pink t-shirt, and a bright blue apron splattered with faint paint stains. Across the front, in rainbow-colored letters, it reads: Mrs. Lina's Home.
My jaw almost drops.
"Mom will be really upset if you hurt the kid," she says, pulling a cigarette from a small silver case and lighting it like she's just stepped out for groceries, not a gunfight.
The man turns to her, still calm. "And who might you be?"
"Wow," she exhales a cloud of smoke, eyes sparkling mischievously, "you're quite handsome. You can call me Mary."
Miss. Mary.
Miss. Lina's second daughter—and the last person I expected to see here. She's loud, flirtatious, borderline perverted, and definitely not someone you'd picture wielding a gun. Yet here she is, standing confidently in front of a walking nightmare, cigarette in hand like it's nothing.
Shock runs through me, but my voice doesn't follow. My throat feels raw, my strength gone. I want to tell her to run—to get away from this monster—but all I can do is watch.
The man's expression darkens, that predatory chill returning to his tone. "I advise you not to interfere."
I feel it again—the same suffocating pressure he unleashed earlier. It slams into me like a wave, paralyzing me even though his focus isn't on me this time. I can only imagine how much worse it feels for her.
But Mrs. Mary doesn't even flinch. She blows another puff of smoke and grins. "If you leave the kid there, I'll let you go. Handsome guys get a free pass."
His answer is simple. "No."
The air tightens. The entire alley goes dead quiet. Even the distant city noise fades, replaced by a silence thick enough to choke on.
Then—
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!
Four gunshots erupt from the man's pistol, each one echoing like thunder. But Mary's faster. Her body moves in a blur, weaving between bullets like she's done it a thousand times. Not a single shot touches her.
Her heels slam against the pavement as she pushes forward, closing the gap in seconds.
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!
Another volley of bullets, but this time she doesn't dodge—she flows. Every step is calculated, every motion efficient. She's reading him, predicting him. In less than three heartbeats, she's in front of him. Her fist flashes upward.
CRASH!
The man goes flying backward, slamming into a parked car hard enough to set off its alarm.
"You're quite strong," he mutters, dusting himself off as if he just tripped, his expression never changing. "I commend you."
The entire scene unfolds faster than I can process. My head's ringing, but I force myself to stay awake, studying everything. The angle of Mary's approach, the timing of her dodges—none of it's random. She's not just strong. She's trained.
The man stands again, brushing off shards of glass. Barely a scratch on him.
Mary raises her gun, smirking. "You're not bad yourself, pretty boy."
BANG! BANG!
Two more shots echo. He tilts his head, avoiding both with unnatural precision. In the blink of an eye, he's gone from where he stood—vanished.
Then, suddenly, he's in front of her.
Even from my spot on the ground, I can barely follow his movement. Mary, though—she doesn't panic. Her pupils narrow; her body adjusts mid-motion. She raises an arm, trying to block—
BOOM!
The impact sends her flying through a wall, debris raining around her. The sound alone makes my ribs ache.
"Mary!" I shout, my voice hoarse.
Guilt floods me. She came here for me, and now she's—
Wait.
Through the dust, she steps out again. Bruised, bleeding, but still moving. She rolls her shoulder with a painful grin. "You're handsome and strong… a perfect combo."
Even bleeding, she still finds time to flirt. Unreal.
The man's expression doesn't change. "Let's stop here. We gain nothing from continuing." His tone never shifts—still cold, still calm.
Then he's gone. Or rather, he moves. One blink—and he's standing beside me.
For a split second, the world stops. My pulse spikes. Mary freezes, cigarette halfway to her lips. Neither of us can move.
Because that one act—the way he crossed the distance in an instant—tells us everything. He wasn't fighting seriously. He was playing with her.
He kneels beside me, eyes unreadable.
"The Silver Killer," he says quietly. "Fight me again when you're stronger."
And then he's gone. Just like that. No sound. No trace. Only the faint echo of his voice left behind.
Mary exhales slowly, tension draining from her shoulders. "Stupid Henry," she mutters, lighting another cigarette with trembling fingers. "You really know how to make friends with the wrong people."
The adrenaline that kept me conscious finally burns out. My body feels heavy, my eyelids heavier. Her voice fades, distant and warped.
"Hey, don't you dare pass out on me, kid!"
But it's too late. Darkness pulls me under before I can answer.
When I open my eyes again, the world feels soft—too soft.
The smell of disinfectant, the faint hum of an air conditioner, and the distant chatter of kids echo around me. I blink, and my vision clears.
I'm not in the alley anymore.
I'm lying in my bed. At the orphanage.
The morning sun peeks through the curtains, warm and golden. My chest aches, my bandages feel tight, but I'm alive. Somehow, against all odds… I'm alive.
As I stare at the ceiling, fragments of the night replay in my mind—the gunfire, the fight, that man's voice.
Fight me again when you're stronger.
Those words burn into me, louder than any scream. I don't know who he is or what he wants, but one thing's certain: that wasn't our last encounter.
Not even close.