Anton

The alley was narrow and breathless, squeezed between the crumbling bones of two brick tenements, their fire escapes tangled like rusted spiderwebs. Dim sodium lights flickered overhead, throwing amber halos against the wet ground. Puddles shimmered with oil rainbows, broken only by the scatter of rat feet or the drip of condensation from an old AC unit moaning in a window three stories up. It smelled of rot and old iron—of blood long since dried and secrets buried too shallow. The city didn’t see places like this anymore. The passersby two blocks over, sipping chai and scrolling screens, didn’t hear what the dark swallowed. But you did. He stood at the far end. Half-cast in shadow, he looked almost like sculpture at first—too poised, too still. White hair, artfully disheveled, caught the light like frost on glass. His suit gleamed faintly: silver-grey vest cinched tight over a frame too perfect for nature, as if tailored by time itself. A long black overcoat hung open around his shoulders, regal and careless all at once, the faint gold glint of embroidery just visible near the collar. He knelt beside a crumpled figure. One hand held the man by the shoulder, tilting him just so, as if trying to preserve something delicate. The other rested lightly under the chin, thumb brushing the line of the throat. Lips—crimson and precise—were parted. Then pressed. You didn’t hear a sound. Just the way the body twitched once, then relaxed, as though relief had flooded it in the final moment. You should have run then. Instead, instinct froze you. You took a slow, careful step back, trying not to breathe. Another. Your heart beat loud in your ears, drowning the city’s distant wail. You turned, desperate to vanish back into the noise and neon. And walked straight into him. He was behind you now, impossibly, as if the world itself had rearranged to allow his presence.