AMERICA:2008

(New York)

"Who are you, kid?"

The boy spat at the blonde woman, smiling through the blood on his lips.

Her face froze—anger and disbelief colliding. Then her hand lashed out, striking him hard across the cheek.

"You damn bastard," she hissed, hitting him again and again, each slap echoing in the dim chamber.

"Stop."

The command cut through the air. One of the shadowy figures had spoken, his voice deep and absolute.

The woman halted mid-swing, And froze. The second shadow, speaking low, almost gently.

"Let's start with something simple. What's your name?"

The kid tilted his head, blood dripping down his chin. "Azerial."

"Strange name," the woman muttered, almost mocking. the blonde woman sneered. "Who gave it to you?"

A grin spread across Azerial's face, teeth red with blood.

"The man whose blood I bathed in. I guided his soul to hell… and I'll guide yours."

The woman's rage surged again. she wanted to swing a fist, cracking his jaw but the shadows' silence weighed heavier than her rage.

Grabbing his chin, she grabbed his jaw, forcing him to meet her eyes.

"You think that name makes you untouchable?" she whispered. "Names mean nothing. Do you know what does?"

Her finger hovered just above the knife wound, not pressing, only grazing the torn flesh—enough to make his body tense, enough to remind him of the pain waiting to return.

"What matters," she breathed, her lips close to his ear now, "You disrespectful little shit,"

plunging into the open knife wound at his side she growled, twisting inside the wound. The shadows said nothing, only watched.

"I talk, I talk…" Azreal muttered, his words slurring, his throat raw. After a long silence he whispered, "Did you kill 7?" 

"Yes, I killed him," 

"And 6? You killed 6 too?" 

"No." His voice trembled as He shook his head slowly, blood dripping down his chin. "The old man raised me."

The blonde woman's anger flickered into confusion. "He… raised you?" she asked, her voice strangely fragile.

Azreal's gaze drifted, his words spilling out ragged, unbidden. "The white-eyed man came for me. The old man—he stood in his way. He protected me. He gave his life so I could keep mine." 

A silence settled, thick and suffocating. A tear slipped down the woman's cheek before she turned her face away. 

The commanding shadow's voice cut through it. "Did he tell you about us?"

Azreal's head dropped. "No. Ten years I lived by his side, I never knew who he really was. A day before he died… he told me only one thing." His eyes burned.

"That he killed my parents."

The room went still. The two shadows shifted without sound. Then, wordlessly, the three figures—shadows and woman—left the chamber.

Azreal sat alone. His thoughts circled like vultures. Escape? Where would I even go? I have no one. Nothing. I'm tired. Darkness thickened. His head fell, and at last, His body gave way. Darkness swallowed him.

When he woke, his throat was so sharp it burned. His lips cracked. "I… feel thirsty," he croaked. He lifted his eyes to the ceiling, but the dark was absolute—no cracks of light, no sky, no hope.

Then: screeeak. The steel door groaned open.

A small figure slipped inside. Bare feet, light steps. A girl—young, brown hair falling across her face. Her eyes glowed in the dark, angry, unnatural.

"It's your time," she said, her voice quiet, sharp as glass. "You will die."

Azreal… Spook…" he rasped, desperate, his throat tearing. "Water. Before… before you kill me. 

The girl tilted her head, brown hair falling across her face. Her lips curled into something colder than hate.

"You'll quench your thirst with your own blood."

She pulled two small knives from her belt. The steel caught no light in the darkness—but Azreal felt their edge all the same.