The night was merciless.
Each gust of wind seemed to sneer at Fred, tugging at his thin hoodie, chilling him down to the bone.
The streets were mostly empty.
Except for the occasional couple laughing their way home, or a few drunk students stumbling from a bar, slurring songs about victories Fred would never taste.
He walked with his head low, guitar case dangling like a corpse from his fingers.
The weight of the showcase — the mockery, the failure — was still crushing him, wrapping around his lungs until every breath was a struggle.
> "You're nothing."
"You'll never be anything."
Their words echoed louder than his own heartbeat.
Fred thought about disappearing.
About quitting.
Maybe transferring schools.
Maybe leaving the city altogether.
He didn't know.
And for the first time in a long time, he didn't even care.
--
He cut through a narrow alley to reach the bus station faster.
The alley was dim, lit only by a flickering, dying streetlight.
And that's when he saw him.
A figure leaning casually against the brick wall, smoking a cigarette.
Tall.
Wearing a long black coat.
Face mostly hidden under a low, wide-brimmed hat.
The kind of presence you don't just see — you feel.
Fred's steps faltered.
Everything in him screamed to walk faster, to keep his head down, to avoid whatever trouble this was.
But before he could move, the man spoke.
Voice deep.
Smooth.
Almost amused.
> "Rough night?"
Fred said nothing.
Just tightened his grip on his guitar case and kept moving.
But the man chuckled softly.
Not mockingly.
Almost… approvingly.
> "Takes guts to bleed in front of wolves," he said.
"Most just crawl away and die quietly."
Fred froze mid-step.
The words hit something raw inside him.
He turned slightly, wary.
The man's face was still shadowed.
Only the faint glow of his cigarette revealed the line of a smirk.
> "You've got something, kid," the man said, voice low enough that Fred had to strain to hear.
"Something real. And they hate you for it."
Fred swallowed.
Hard.
He wanted to believe it.
He wanted it more than anything.
But wanting didn't make it true.
> "You don't know me," Fred rasped out, voice hoarse.
The man dropped his cigarette, crushed it under polished black boots.
Stepped forward just enough for Fred to catch a glimpse of sharp gray eyes under the hat.
Eyes that saw too much.
> "Don't need to know you," the man said.
"I know how the world treats people like you. And I know what happens to the ones who survive it."
Fred didn't speak.
Couldn't.
The man tilted his head slightly, studying him.
> "You're at a crossroads, Fred," he said — using his name without asking.
"You can stay their punching bag forever. Play by their rules. Die forgotten."
He paused.
Stepped even closer.
Fred could smell faint traces of leather, smoke, and something colder — like steel.
> "Or you can learn how to hit back."
The words lit a dangerous spark inside Fred.
> "Hit back..."
It sounded… impossible.
And yet.
It also sounded right.
---
The man pulled something from his coat pocket and tossed it.
Fred caught it clumsily.
It was a card.
Heavy.
Black.
No logos.
No numbers.
Just a silver insignia pressed into the surface — a sword wrapped in thorns.
Simple.
Terrifying.
Beautiful.
> "When you're ready," the man said, turning away,
"find us."
Fred stared at the card.
His heart pounded so loudly it drowned out the world.
> "Who are you?" he croaked.
The man paused at the edge of the alley.
Tipped his hat slightly.
> "The ones who don't kneel," he said.
Then he disappeared into the night, leaving only the echo of his footsteps behind.
Fred stood there, shivering, card in hand.
The alley seemed darker without the man in it.
The city loomed, indifferent.
The world remained cruel.
But for the first time in what felt like forever...
Fred didn't feel alone.
---