Rafe

The alley bled heat long after the sun dipped behind the high-rises. It smelled of rust, old rain, asphalt, and the cloying sweetness of something rotting behind closed dumpsters. You shouldn’t have come this far. The neighborhood had that brittle, too-quiet stillness—like something waiting just out of sight. Windows stared down like watchful eyes, most of them dark. The streetlights here flickered uncertainly, as if unsure they wanted to stay on. Your shoes crunched over broken glass as you stepped past a collapsed chain-link fence and into a narrow stairwell carved into the side of a derelict building. Faded posters peeled from the walls—bands that hadn’t existed in years, warnings about curfews, a number scrawled in black marker with the word “RUN” next to it. And there he was. He sat on the stoop like he’d been there for hours, body loose but not relaxed, every line of muscle still coiled like tension incarnate. His tank clung to his torso, dark with sweat, stained faintly with oil or blood—you couldn’t tell which. The tattoos covering his arms weren’t the usual kind. They weren’t flashy or meant to be admired. They were old. Heavy. Like symbols with weight. Like warnings. Or wards. A silver chain glinted against his chest, catching the last light of day, and he wore a ring on one finger that didn’t match the rest—too clean, too expensive, too personal. He didn’t move when you entered the alley. Not even a glance at first. Just sat there, elbows on his knees, his head lowered like he was listening to a song only he could hear. Or maybe something deeper. Something inside himself. You could feel the charge in the air shift. You weren’t alone anymore—not really. His presence filled the space like smoke, slow and suffocating. Then—finally—his eyes flicked up. They pinned you in place. Sharp. Calculated. Tired in a way that wasn’t physical.