Prologue

A rat reared up, froze – then vanished into a pile of trash, startled by a scream that ripped through the shadowed alleyway. Raw. Guttural. Like it had been torn from a throat stretched past its limit.

In the center of the alley, the stranger’s body convulsed, his muscles threatening to snap clean from bone. He’d taken beatings before. Fists in back alleys. Scrapes in foreign ports with names he no longer remembered. Bruises from those who measured their worth in broken teeth. But nothing had ever felt like this.

Every nerve in his body lit up like fire. Something inside him had gone wrong. Deeply wrong. A rupture? A tear, maybe? Each breath scraped through his lungs, as though his chest had been filled with broken glass. He gasped – blood and bile catching in his throat as his mind screamed: Move. Get up. Crawl. Fight.

His body didn’t listen. Tremors rippled through locked limbs.Every fiber of his existence screamed back – too loud to hear anything else. He clenched his jaw – not from will, but reflex. A body burning inside its own cage.

Blood traced down his cheek, dripping into grime, rainwater, alley filth. Muscle twitched. Bruises flared. Echoes of the fists that should’ve ended him. Cracked ribs? Organ damage? Something vital torn loose? Panic surged, not frantic, but cold and absolute, as he wondered if this was the pain that came before the end.

And then…stillness.

Across the alley, six men stood motionless. The stench of beer, piss, and decay clung to the stale air. Water dripped from somewhere above – steady, measured. A relentless heartbeat. A countdown. The scream still echoed, not in the space around them, but in their bones. A sound too ancient, too feral to forget. They’d seen his body drop, sudden and boneless, as though something inside had been cut loose. No resistance. No struggle. Just a wet slap of flesh against wet pavement.

No one moved. Not at first.

Not until a wiry man, scar across his brow, stepped forward, his boots scraping once against grit. “What the hell was that?” he muttered, eyes still on the stranger. The others hesitated, unsure if the figure on the ground was dead, or merely broken.

Then the biggest of them stepped forward. Boots thudded, slow, deliberate, unnervingly calm. He jabbed the stranger with the toe of his boot. No movement. Satisfied, he spat beside the body, then turned his gaze toward the shadowed back of the alley where she stood.

A silhouette against darkness. Poised. Regal. Still. Her eyes were sharp, her posture measured, calm, but not passive.

From her place in the gloom, she tracked everything: the prone body in grime, the shifting weight of each thug, every glance passed between them. Now their attention was turning toward her, like static in the air that prickled her skin. Still, she didn’t move. An urge flickered in her fingertips; electric, unfamiliar. Move, it said. But she didn’t.

Too many eyes. Too many secrets not yet buried deep enough. One wrong shift, and it would all unravel. She breathed slow. Controlled. She could end this in seconds, but the aftermath would ripple outward, unpredictable, dangerous. Too many variables. Too much risk.

Her gaze returned to the body on the ground. What had happened to him wasn’t part of the plan. It hadn’t come from them. It had come from her. But that should’ve been impossible.

Gravel crunched, drawing her back to the now. Her eyes snapped back to the men. They were moving. Slow. Cocky. Too close. Another few steps, and they’d do something they couldn’t take back.

She adjusted, just enough to root her stance. Heel scraping lightly against grit. “You don’t want this,” she whispered.

At her wrist, the device vibrated. Once. Barely perceptible, but there and ready. She held her breath. Seconds were slipping, and the space was getting tighter. One more step from them and she’d have no choice. Not because she wanted to, but because she wouldn’t have no other choice.

Then a voice rang out, loud, firm.

“Hey…”

Everything froze. The words weren’t loud, but they cracked the moment like a fault line.

The stranger pulled himself upright. Slow. Shaking. Not graceful, not triumphant – just standing, which was enough to shatter certainty because his body had no business standing. Blood threaded down from beneath his hood – thick, reluctant, clinging like it was tethered to him. He swayed. but didn’t fall. He rose. Slowly.

“You and me? We’re not finished yet.”

Under the dull yellow glow of a single alley light, his hood stayed low, face swallowed in darkness. Light didn’t soften him – it carved him into a silhouette. Shoulders squared. One hand on the wall and the other slack at his side. Knees bent – ready – or refusing. It was hard to tell. His clothes hung torn and soaked, streaked with grime, rain, and blood. A figure built from defiance, not ease. Blood dried in ragged streaks down his jaw.

He didn’t bother wiping it away. He didn’t move. He just stood. Not sure how. Not sure why. He was only certain of one thing: He would not fall again.

His eyes, hidden beneath the hood’s edge, found them. He held no menace. No fear. Just something quiet and fixed. The thugs slowed. One shifted – uncertain. Another’s smirk faltered. Eyes narrowed beneath low brows. Their swagger drained – not gone, but leaking out in quiet degrees. This wasn’t what they’d signed up for. He wasn’t supposed to be standing.

Silence stretched between them – longer, heavier. Not fear. Not yet. But something colder. A pause where confidence used to be.

She sensed it too. A tilt in the air. A flicker in their stance. Her weight eased forward again – not to act, but to watch. Intently.

What had happened to him shouldn’t have happened, certainly not from her.

Something beneath the stranger’s skin undulated – faint, like light spiderwebbing beneath his flesh. She saw it. Saw his gaze shift to it. He looked down. It was fleeting and faint. Maybe he imagined it. Maybe a trick of the dull light, but whatever it was…

It felt foreign.

A warmth bloomed through his chest and down his arms – slow, liquid. It rolled over the fire inside him, displacing pain, leaving a faint buzz in its wake. His fingers flexed, light, alive.

The thugs noticed nothing. Their posture still held a loose swagger – unaware, unbothered. One cracked his knuckles, the sound echoing in the quiet alley. Another shifted weight, grin still half there, eyes scanning, ready for simple violence. Whatever had passed through the stranger, they didn’t register it.

One of the thugs chuckled – sharp, thin, trying to break the quiet before it turned on them. “You’re tougher than you look,” he said, stepping forward. His voice carried enough confidence to cover uncertainty. “Not very bright, but tough.”

Another flanked him – arms relaxed, shaking out tension like this was just a warm-up. Their earlier certainty wasn’t fully back – but pieces of it were returning. And with it… danger.

But further down the alley, where shadows played at the edges of light, she saw everything. Her eyes narrowed. The set of her jaw stiffened – not surprise, but calculation. Recognition flickered there. That shouldn’t have happened. She thought. It’s just not possible.

The stranger braced a hand against the alley wall. Every muscle strained, knees buckled, but didn’t give. He breathed – shallow, uneven – but he stayed upright, thrumming with something he couldn’t name. He looked them in the eye.

He heaved his weight forward, and when he spoke, his voice was coarse – raspy, but beneath it… a steel resolve. “Let’s see you try that again.” He said, standing upright.

His voice scraped out like sandpaper – raw but certain. He dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing blood across his wrist. There was no threat in his posture. No fear, either. Just the quiet promise of someone who wasn’t supposed to be standing – but was.

The thugs exchanged glances – disbelief and aggression brewing in shallow minds. How was this interloper even upright, let alone speaking? One of them adjusted his weight, glance flicking back toward their leader – though his eyes kept darting toward the stranger.

Just beyond the reach of the alley’s spill of light, she watched. Her gaze tightened – not confusion this time, but cold calculation. None of this made sense. Not the pain. Not the survival. Not the resilience that shouldn’t exist. The device wasn’t meant for him. It shouldn’t have worked. Yet here he was – defying every probability, every variable she’d accounted for.

What is he?

And then the leader stepped forward. Big. Broad. Confidence leaning into menace. His sneer cut through the night like a blade. Fingers curled – not into claws, but loose enough to explode into violence at any moment.

Crack. The sound came as he flexed his knuckles – a sharp echo through the alley slick with wet and shadow.

He closed the distance. Slow. Heavy. Certain. Boots grinding in wet grit. His shadow reached forward – merging with the stranger’s.

For a breath, neither moved.

Then the grin. Slow. Deliberate. A predator, certain of its endgame.

The stranger didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak. He just stood – braced, resolute, as though something inside him hadn’t broken, hadn’t vanished, but hardened.

This night wasn’t over.

It hadn’t even begun.