The storm drain echoed like a cathedral, hollow, cold, reverent in a way only the forgotten parts of the city could be.
My bow moved like it had a mind of its own, dragging desperate sound from the strings, notes that were more scream than song, more prayer than performance. My fingers were raw, fingertips pressed so hard into the fingerboard they felt carved out of bone. My shoulders burned, knotted and trembling. But I didn't stop.
I couldn't.
There weren't many people tonight; just a few huddled shapes leaning against the brick walls, shadows in damp coats, some drunk, some lost, a vampire or two lingering like hungry ghosts around the edges. They didn't come close. Not yet.
Coins clinked into my open violin case, pitiful offerings landing among crushed cigarette butts and the faded corner of a candy wrapper I hadn't had the energy to throw away. Just enough to keep my hope on life support.
Then I saw her.
She stood at the front, where the light from the flickering alley bulb bled into the darkness.
Still. Too still.
Like she'd been carved from wax and left too long in the rain. Her eyes were hollows, deep and dark, like she was looking at something inside me no one else could see. Her lips were cracked and flaking, but there was something careful about the way she held herself, like someone remembering how to be human.
When the last note sighed into silence, no one clapped. They never did.
But she didn't move. Didn't blink.
Instead, she reached slowly into the folds of her coat and pulled something out. Small, black, and gleaming.
A pearl.
She dropped it into my violin case.
It landed with a soft thunk, barely louder than a heartbeat.
But it hit me like thunder.
I froze.
A black pearl. Soul-thief bait.
I'd heard the stories. Everybody had. People who wandered into back alleys following a song they couldn't name. People who never really came back. They'd hum a tune under their breath, eyes empty, memories frayed like old rope. No one could explain it, but everyone knew. Music could take your soul.
One note at a time.
The woman smiled.
Too many teeth. Too white. Too perfect, like something that had read about smiles in a book but never practiced in front of a mirror.
My hand moved without thinking.
I snapped the violin case shut, fast and loud. The sharp clap made the others startle, but no one questioned it.
"Show's over," I said, voice low, trying to sound firm. My chest was tight, breath shallow.
Some grumbled. Most just wandered off into the haze of the city night, searching for whatever scraps of warmth or purpose they could still find.
The woman lingered.
She watched me for a heartbeat more, then turned—smooth, silent—and disappeared into the shadows like she'd never been there.
I didn't wait to see where she went.
Didn't want to.
Didn't dare.
The alley was a shortcut.
And I knew better.
In New Avalon, shortcuts were just scenic routes to getting stabbed or worse. But my hands were trembling, my breath shallow, and the boiler room I called home was three miles east. My knees ached, my spine screamed, and I was so damn tired.
I told myself I'd be quick. Keep my head down. Move like a whisper.
But I heard them before I saw them.
Footsteps. Quick. Heavy. Too many. Too close.
My heart spiked.
I spun just as the first one lunged out of the shadows like a drunk vulture.
"Nice violin," he slurred. His breath hit me like rot and cheap gin, thick enough to peel paint. "Bet it's worth something."
My grip tightened on the bow—more reflex than bravery.
"Bet your face isn't," I snapped, and regretted it instantly.
His eyes narrowed. He swung.
I ducked. Years of playing had taught my arms more than music. The bow lashed across his cheek with a satisfying crack. A thin red line split his skin. He howled like a kicked dog.
But it didn't matter.
There were more behind him. Three shapes emerging like mold from the dark, grimy jackets, twitching fingers, eyes lit with hunger and cruelty.
I fought like a cornered stray. All instinct. No strategy.
The bow cracked across one guy's nose. Blood burst. My elbow slammed into another's windpipe. He staggered, coughing.
Still not enough.
A fist slammed into my ribs. Something gave. Pain exploded. I couldn't breathe. My knees buckled. I hit the wall hard enough to rattle my skull.
And then he was in front of me. The first one. Bleeding, grinning, knife in hand.
"Gonna make you sing," he said, like it was a joke only he could hear.
But then—
Silence.
Sharp and sudden. The kind of silence that presses down on your chest and makes the world tilt sideways.
The man's head jerked to the side. Just slightly. Like a dog hearing something no human ear could catch.
I didn't understand. Not until the blood hit my face.
Hot. Immediate.
Not mine.
The man's eyes widened. His mouth opened to scream but nothing came. His body slumped, lifeless, before his knees hit the ground.
Something behind him moved.
And I stopped breathing altogether.
The figure moved like water.
No footsteps. No breath. Just motion. Smooth, unhurried, merciless.
One moment, the alley was alive with snarling thieves. The next, it was a graveyard of groans and broken bodies.
One of the thief lunged, all claws and shadows. But the man moved—swift and surgical. Metal flashed. A blade, thin and curved like a crescent moon, elegant and lethal. It caught the flickering neon for a heartbeat, then found its mark. The thief's neck split open with no scream, only a gurgle, before it collapsed into silence.
The another hissed and charged. Faster this time. Claws gleamed. But the man was faster. He twisted, caught the creature's wrist mid-swipe—bones snapped with a wet crunch—and drove the blade into its chest with a clean, deliberate thrust.
The creature spasmed. Shuddered. Fell still.
The another one paused, eyes calculating. Smarter than the others. It hissed something in a guttural language I didn't understand, words slick like oil.
The man raised one hand, fingers splayed. The air bent—rushed—and a gust of ice-wind slammed the thief against the far wall. I heard bones break. Heard the silence that followed.
And then… stillness.
Not peace.
Stillness.
The kind that follows ruin.