The alley was too narrow.
Izana realized that a second too late.
By the time he turned, the first punch had already landed.
It wasn't clean. It wasn't precise. It was desperate.
He staggered half a step but didn't fall.
Three of them.
Maybe four.
He hadn't counted when they started circling him.
"You should've walked away," one of them muttered.
Izana didn't answer.
He rarely did.
Another one lunged.
This time Izana moved.
Fast.
Too fast for them.
He caught the wrist mid-swing, twisted — a sharp crack of bone followed by a scream. The sound echoed off the brick walls.
But he felt it.
That surge.
The familiar rush behind his ribs.
Too sharp. Too strong.
Control it.
A fist collided with his side. Something shifted painfully.
He barely reacted.
Instead, he stepped forward — precise, economical movements. He didn't swing wildly. Didn't shout.
Just ended it.
Thirty seconds later, the alley was quiet except for groaning.
Izana stood still, breathing controlled, jaw tight.
He flexed his right hand once.
It trembled.
He clenched it into a fist until it stopped.
Stay steady.
One of them coughed from the ground. "What… are you?"
Izana didn't look at him.
He turned and walked out of the alley.
Only once he reached the empty street did the pain fully hit.
His ribs burned when he inhaled.
He touched his side carefully.
Wet.
He glanced down.
Blood soaked slowly through the fabric near his lower ribs. Not a shallow cut.
Deep enough.
He exhaled slowly.
"Stupid," he muttered to himself.
Not about them.
About himself.
He should have left earlier.
He should have avoided the confrontation.
He should know better by now.
The apartment building he was staying in wasn't much — cracked paint, broken elevator, thin walls. He climbed the stairs slowly, one hand braced against the railing.
Each step sent a sharp pulse through his side.
By the third flight, his breathing was uneven.
By the fifth, his vision blurred slightly.
"Don't," he whispered under his breath.
He didn't know if he was speaking to the pain — or to something deeper.
Inside the apartment, he locked the door immediately.
Two locks.
Chain.
He leaned back against it for a second.
The room was dim and bare. Just a mattress on the floor. A table. A small sink in the corner.
He pulled his jacket off carefully.
The movement made him grit his teeth.
The shirt underneath was worse than he thought. The blade had caught him lower than he'd realized.
He stepped to the sink, turning on the water.
Clear at first.
Then red.
He pressed a cloth against the wound and hissed quietly as the cold hit.
The cut wasn't clean. It would need stitching.
He stared at his reflection in the cracked mirror above the sink.
Red eyes stared back.
Unblinking.
His hand trembled again.
He gripped the edge of the sink until his knuckles turned white.
"Stay in control."
His voice was low.
Measured.
He'd learned that tone over the years.
Not from anyone else.
From necessity.
He cleaned the wound in silence. Every press of the cloth felt like fire sliding beneath his skin. He worked methodically.
Thread. Needle. Steady hands.
They shook anyway.
He paused.
Closed his eyes.
Breathed in slowly.
And that's when it happened.
A flicker.
Not visual at first.
Auditory.
Someone shouting.
His name.
Not in anger.
In fear.
His eyes snapped open.
The bathroom was silent.
Only dripping water.
His heart rate spiked violently.
He pressed his hand flat against his chest.
"Stop."
The word came sharper this time.
Another flash.
Glass breaking.
Red light.
A woman stepping forward—
He staggered back from the sink as if he'd been shoved.
The memory vanished.
Gone before it fully formed.
He stared at the mirror again.
"What was that?"
His reflection didn't answer.
His pulse refused to settle.
He bent forward, gripping the sink again.
It wasn't the first time.
Fragments had come before.
But never that clear.
Never that loud.
He looked down at his hands.
There was blood on them.
Not just from the wound.
From earlier.
From the alley.
His breathing tightened.
He flexed his fingers slowly.
They were steady now.
But he could still feel the echo of the surge — the rush of strength that came too easily when he let it.
Too easily.
He finished stitching the wound in silence.
Each pull of thread forced him back into focus.
Pain was grounding.
Pain was controllable.
Memories were not.
When he was done, he wrapped his ribs tightly, securing the bandage.
The room swayed slightly when he stood.
He ignored it.
He walked to the small mattress and sat down heavily.
The fight replayed in his head.
Not because he enjoyed it.
Because he analyzed everything.
Distance. Reaction time. Force used.
He had ended it quickly.
Efficiently.
No unnecessary damage.
Controlled.
But the surge…
That part lingered.
He lay back slowly, staring at the ceiling.
The flicker of the woman's voice returned faintly.
Izana.
He frowned.
He didn't recognize the voice.
But it felt familiar.
Too familiar.
His chest tightened.
"Who are you?" he murmured to the empty room.
No answer.
The ceiling remained cracked and silent.
He shifted slightly — pain flaring along his side.
He welcomed it.
It kept him anchored.
After a few minutes, his breathing finally steadied.
Exhaustion crept in, heavy and sudden.
He turned onto his side carefully.
The room was quiet.
Too quiet.
For a moment — just a brief one — he considered something dangerous.
Going back.
Not to the mansion.
Just to her.
Leah.
The thought unsettled him more than the fight had.
He shut his eyes tightly.
"No."
If he went back injured…
They would see weakness.
They would see instability.
They would see what he feared most.
He forced the thought away.
He had survived alone for two years.
He could survive this.
But as sleep dragged him under, the last thing he heard wasn't the echo of fists or the sound of glass.
It was that voice again.
Calling his name.
And this time—
It sounded like it was crying.