Ash ran close behind the man, shadows stretching along the alley walls. The man glanced over his shoulder, realizing he was being followed. Panic sharpened his movements. He surged forward, muscles straining, breath ragged and hot.
Ash laughed quietly to himself. Funny, he thought, how a man's speed doubled when his life depended on it. Before, he hadn't run like this—not with a hint of real fear. Now, adrenaline pushed him forward, legs pumping, lungs burning.
The man stumbled on uneven cobblestones, almost losing balance. Sweat slicked his skin, clinging like a second layer, glistening in the dim light. Perhaps he was silently praying to something, anyone, to help him survive.
The alley narrowed, barrels stacked haphazardly in the center. Without hesitation, the man leapt over them, landing hard, barely breaking stride. Ash followed with ease, boots clinking against debris, agile and unrelenting, a shadow in pursuit.
The man's eyes darted around, calculating, searching. Then, a glimmer of hope—a route upward. Without pausing, he sprinted toward a stack of wooden crates piled against the building. Ash's boots followed close behind, precise, silent, deadly.
He leapt onto the crates, feet finding purchase on the unstable wood. A quick spring, a sharp bend of knees, and he landed on the balcony railing. The thin metal shivered beneath his weight, threatening to betray him, but he didn't falter. With a final push, he vaulted forward, disappearing through an open balcony door into the building's interior.
Ash paused at the base for barely a heartbeat, studying the path. No hesitation. He mirrored the movements with fluid precision—crates, railing, leap—landing inside with the same quiet force, the echo of pursuit never leaving the air.
The door to the balcony exploded inward with a sharp crack, splinters scattering across the floor. Inside, an elderly man stirred from his deep sleep, eyes wide with terror. His frail hands trembled as he tried to comprehend the sudden chaos. He shouted, pleaded, his voice shaking, promising anything—anything to stop whatever was coming.
But it didn't matter. The young man—Ash's target—was already gone. He didn't glance at the old man, didn't hesitate, didn't consider the consequences. Every thought, every instinct, was consumed by survival. The balcony was just another step in his escape, a path to freedom from the relentless pursuer.
Ash followed without pause, silent and precise. The old man blinked, heart racing, watching shadows slip past the threshold of his home. When he finally opened his eyes fully, the intruder was gone. Gone from the room, gone from the balcony, gone from sight entirely.
He searched the small apartment, scanning every corner, every shadow. Nothing. The city outside was quiet again, as if it had never been disturbed. Slowly, he let his breath out, tension leaving his frame in shaky waves. The danger had passed—for now—but the echo of fear lingered in the stillness.
They leapt from balcony to balcony, crates and railings barely holding under their weight. The man stumbled over a loose plank, arms flailing, but caught himself and kept running. Sweat clung to his back, slick and heavy, as adrenaline drove his every step.
Ash followed, silent and relentless, boots thudding against wood and concrete. A sharp clang echoed as the man jumped down from the last balcony. Dust rose around him, scattering over the rooftop like sparks, before he hit the ground and bolted into the alley below.
Ash landed moments later, knees flexing to absorb the impact, eyes scanning.
The man ran a few steps, glancing back for Ash, panic flickering in his movements. Then, without warning, he stumbled on someone—or something—and crashed to the ground with a heavy thud, scrambling to regain balance as fear overtook him.
The man looked up. Relief washed over his face when he saw who it was—familiar faces. Four of his gang members stood there, waiting, watching, their eyes sharp and impatient. They had come to see why it was taking so long to bring back a single man.
One of the bigger men's gaze landed on him, and anger flared instantly. He took a step forward, voice low and threatening. "What happened?"
The beaten man didn't respond. How could he? Pride wouldn't let him admit that three of their own had been bested by a single stranger. He swallowed hard, saliva thick in his throat, and kept his eyes down.
Ash landed on the ground, knees flexing to absorb the impact. He cursed himself under his breath—wasting too much time chasing a single man.
Ahead, the rest of the gang had arrived. Four of them, looming and silent, their eyes locked on him.
The first was a massive figure, easily towering over six and a half feet, broad shoulders braced like a wall. The second bore a thick beard, the strands catching faint light, jaw clenched in unreadable tension. The third was a skinny man, wiry and twitchy, fingers flexing like he was ready to strike but unsure how. The fourth—oddly memorable—had two protruding front teeth, a rabbit-like grin that seemed to cut into the air like a warning.
Their gaze dropped to the man lying on ground. Disbelief, disgust, and tension thickened the air. No words were exchanged—none were needed. Their pride burned silently—how could one man, a stranger, dismantle three of their own effortlessly?
Ash knew he had fucked up. There was nothing he could do now. He could probably beat the shit out of the four of them, but they wouldn't underestimate him this time. They wouldn't charge recklessly.
Only one option was left again—to run.
But not like this. He needed a distraction, something that could pull their attention away from him.
That was when he saw a pipe.
A crazy idea formed—to splash water into their faces.
He slowly took a step back and reached toward the tap.
The big guy noticed.
He commented on Ash's movement," asking where he thought he was going, whether he was planning to run again."
Ash didn't respond. His face stayed forward, expression locked, eyes fixed on them without a flicker of hesitation.
Slowly, deliberately, he shifted his foot and pressed it down on the pipe's opening, sealing it tight so not a drop escaped. His hand turned the tap clockwise—once, twice—until it wouldn't move anymore. Pressure built behind the metal, unseen, coiling like something waiting to strike.
He waited a few seconds.
Just long enough.
Then he crouched, fingers closing around the pipe, and snapped it up in a sharp motion—unleashing the trapped force straight at them.
For a fraction of a second, they didn't understand what he had done.
Then the water hit.
A violent blast slammed into their faces at full pressure. Instinct took over—hands flew up, eyes clamped shut as the stream tore into them. Skin burned as if needles were driven into every exposed pore. Breath caught. Vision vanished beneath the roaring spray.
That was all Ash needed.
He was already gone.
He turned and ran, boots striking hard against the ground as he vanished into the maze of streets, leaving only chaos and water behind.
When the force finally vanished, they tried to open their eyes. Pain answered first. A sharp tingling burned through their vision, water still streaming down their faces. They blinked hard, coughing, wiping blindly until the blur slowly peeled away.
The alley came back into focus.
Ash was gone.
Silence settled, heavy and humiliating. Understanding hit them all at once—too late. The realization tasted bitter.
One of them cursed loudly, rage cracking through his voice.
"That bastard ran off again."
Another spat on the ground, eyes scanning the empty street.
"Where would that rat even go? We'll catch him."
But the alley offered nothing in return. No footsteps. No shadow. Only dripping water and the echo of their own failure hanging in the air.
The big man looked down at the one leaning against him, sweat dripping from his chin.
"Where did he go?" he demanded.
The man swallowed and shook his head.
"I—I didn't see—"
The big man spat on the ground.
"Useless."
His boot drove into the man's stomach.
"Ghh—!"
The man folded instantly, clutching his gut as he dropped to his knees. A strained groan slipped out, but he didn't curse. Didn't fight back. He kept his head down, humiliation burning hotter than the pain.
The big man clicked his tongue.
"What good are you, then?"
He turned to the others, eyes cold.
"We split up."
He pointed to the left.
"You two—go that way."
The skinny man stiffened. The rabbit-toothed one nodded quickly.
"Don't miss him," the big man added. "If you see him—don't rush. Corner him."
They moved out without another word.
The alley fell quiet again.
But the hunt had already begun.