«Have you ever felt trapped? Like you've never been in control—like everything you've ever known was a blasphemous lie? I-I'm sorry, I don't know where this is coming from. This is no way to start a conversation. You don't even know who I am. I suppose introductions are in order, so why don't I tell you my story?»
"Screech!"
The screech of metal against metal echoed down the tunnel.
A man stepped out of the subway car, shoulders hunched, blue eyes darting side to side like he was looking for something or someone.
'Where are they?' He thought, the smell of cigarettes wafting through his nostrils—cigarettes mixed with the perfume of different people walking around him.
The platform was half-lit—flickering bulbs buzzing overhead, casting stuttering halos on the grime-slick tiles.
New York's subway never slept, or at least that's what this city was called till they renamed it years ago; now it was District 42 of the Eagle Alliance.
A side effect of the great power divide that the passageways caused.
His hand stayed near his jacket pocket. Not because he was cold—he wasn't. But because whatever was in there made him feel safer. Just barely.
[Another temporary passageway appears at district forty-eight of the Eagle Alliance. Fortunately, thanks to the quick response of local Wizards, the issue has been resolved. Unfortunately, it is illegal...] The sound of a news report from a TV shop drew him in but he quickly moved on as if chased by something.
Looking at the time on a passer-by's phone he noted that the time was six AM, the sky was dim, but his surroundings were illuminated by the neon lights of local businesses.
Most of the buildings were under construction, and some of them were damaged in such a way that it appeared that a big rock had been thrown at them.
Hell, one of these buildings had a bus sticking out of it.
This city had been destroyed and rebuilt so many times that it would be unrecognizable to the people of the past.
But that was the least of his problems.
Every footstep behind him made him flinch.
Every cough, every shuffle, every distant thud made his pace quicken.
Someone was following him, he just didn't know who.
"Taxi!" The blue-eyed man yelled as he stopped a cab he was about to open the door, but then he paused in his tracks.
'Something isn't right,' he thought as he stepped back, but it was too late, as the door was pushed open, revealing a well-dressed man with dark hair pointing a gun at him.
"Get in, Tom," the well-dressed man spoke rather calmly, prompting the blue-eyed man, or Tom, to look around as though asking for help.
But nobody saw him, nobody cared.
"You should get in," another well-dressed man whispered into his ear from behind. He had finally met the person who was following him.
«Don't go in.»
Left with no choice, Tom got in, and so did the man who whispered to him.
"I can explain, hmm," he was gagged before he could try to talk his way out of whatever he had gotten himself into.
His hands were restrained, with thin ropes tied so thoroughly that they cut into his skin.
To prevent sight, his head was covered by a black bag, but he could feel, and he could hear.
He felt the car driving away, and heard as the men let out shallow breaths, it was quiet, too quiet.
They drove for a while, Tom's mind racing with each passing second.
The experience was different from the movies where the main character somehow knew where he was based on the sound alone.
But how would he know, he wasn't the main character, he was just another guy who had fucked up.
'Is this how I die?' Tom thought to himself, tightening his fists as the car slowed to a crawl.
Immediately, he was forced out, dragged—even, his breath having a slight echo to them suggesting that he was in some kind of open space.
Again, they walked for a while, but then he was suddenly forced to the ground, his breath hitching as he was forced to lie down, the smell of dust seeping through the fabric of the bag that covered his face.
Then he felt them tying his legs together with a rope, which confused him greatly, until he felt himself being hoisted up by that same rope; now he was upside down, dangling.
Driven by instincts, he struggled to free himself, shaking and turning like some kind of worm.
But his actions were futile, his arms were bound, and so were his legs; he wasn't going anywhere.
"Tom, Tom, Tom," a female voice suddenly chanted, her tone, uncertain in a way.
Immediately after, his blindfold was removed allowing him to finally take note of his surroundings.
He noticed that he was in some kind of storage room.
The room was bathed in a sickly yellow light, the kind that made shadows around him stretch too long and details blur.
Dust hung in the air like ash, floating lazily in and out of the flickering beams cast by a single bare bulb dangling from the ceiling.
Tom noted that it swung slightly, as if disturbed by a recent movement-or maybe just the weight of everything that had happened there.
The walls were made of unfinished concrete, stained with damp patches and old smears of something brownish that Tom didn't want to identify.
Rusted metal shelves lined the sides, stacked haphazardly with crates, tools, and what looked like car parts—or weapons.
There were two broken chairs pushed against the far wall, one with a leg missing, the other with red stains on the seat.
In the far corner stood a group of thugs—three of them. They weren't just muscle; they had that dead-eyed, bored-but-ready-to-break-you look that came from doing this kind of thing too often.
One leaned against a shelf, flipping a butterfly knife with ease.
Another chewed gum loudly, the smack of it echoing off the cold walls.
The last one just watched Tom, smiling like he knew something Tom didn't.
And then there was her.
She sat on a chair placed directly in front of Tom, legs crossed, one hand resting on her hip while the other delicately held a cigarette.
Her heels clicked softly as she walked closer, each step deliberate.
She was stunning—dangerously so. Long dark hair cascading down her shoulders in waves, lips red like fresh blood, and eyes sharp enough to cut through steel.
Her tight black outfit hugged her in all the right ways, revealing just enough to distract, but not enough to disarm.
She didn't need skin to be powerful—her presence alone felt lethal.
"Tom, Tom, Tom," she repeated again, almost like she was savoring the sound of his name.
Her tone was velvet-lined poison—mocking, flirtatious, and laced with something cruel.
Then, Tom's eyes darted past her—and landed on the other figure in the room.
Kneeling in the corner, trembling, was a dishalved youth.
He couldn't have been older than twenty.
He wore a baggy grey hoodie, the hood pulled up over messy dark hair, his arms hung limply at his sides, shoulders shaking slightly as if he'd just stopped crying—or hadn't yet started.
His face was pale, lips tight, eyes splendidly conveying his unease.
Their eyes met, and despite not knowing the kid Tom decided that he didn't give a fuck who he was or what happened to him.
He was more concerned about the threat in front of him, being the woman and the armed men.
"Who the fuck are you," Tom inquired, immediately putting up a brave front despite his rather unfavorable position, he refused to seem weak.
Unfortunately, his captors didn't share his sentiment.
"Haha," the woman immediately broke into a giggle, and the men around also chuckled as though entertained by Tom.
The woman suddenly stopped giggling, or rather her face stopped doing anything, no emotion to be seen as she walked towards him.
"If you're with the Vipers, tell your boss I ain't scared of shit, you need me alive to pay you-"
"Slit!"
Tom was cut short as the woman suddenly moved quite swiftly, a blood-stained blade in her hand.
He knew not where the blade came from.
His eyes had barely caught what happened but he could see it, he could feel it, the woman had slit his throat.
Red hot liquid—his own blood gushed out of his neck, the agonizing pain came soon after, and as the life drained from him, he stared at his murderer in shock.
The worst part was she didn't even pay attention to him, instead she turned to face that boy, that boy who he didn't care about.
Who was that boy that he was more important than his fucking life he thought weakly.
"You see what happens when you're late on a payment, Valen, bad things happen," the woman spoke softly to the boy in front of her, now shaking with fear.
As the last semblance of life drained from Tom, he took note of that name Valen, and wondered how on earth he mattered more than him.
«You may have already noticed by now, but I am not Tom, I don't have it in me to go against these fucking people, no I'm the nicotine addicted youth kneeling on the ground pissing my fucking pants right now, it's a pleasure to meet you, I assure you you'll be seeing more of me.»