Chapter 2: Fight and Flight

"In the depths of despair, even the faintest glimmer of hope can be a lifeline—or a trap." — Anonymous

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Shibuya never truly slept. Its streets pulsed with neon lights and restless souls, a city caught between dreams and disillusionment.

Towering screens flashed advertisements of things Belial would never afford, while the scent of sizzling street food taunted his empty stomach.

The crowds moved like ocean currents, people brushing past him without a second glance, as if he were just another shadow lost in the chaos.

He had been drifting for too long, an unmoored specter in a city that didn't care if he lived or died.

Hunger gnawed at his insides, but he ignored it.

He had learned to. He had to.

His feet carried him down another unfamiliar alley, the hum of traffic growing distant as the narrow passage swallowed him whole.

A streetlamp flickered above, casting elongated shadows against the damp brick walls. He pulled his hoodie lower over his face.

Not that anyone would notice him.

He was invisible here—just another lost kid with nowhere to go.

But the city had its own laws, and he had broken one without realizing it.

A sharp clang echoed through the alley. Belial stopped, his senses sharpening.

"Hey, kid! What are you doing in my territory?"

A deep, gravelly voice cut through the cold night air.

Belial turned toward the sound, his pulse quickening.

From the darkness, a figure emerged—a towering man draped in layers of worn-out clothing, arms covered in faded tattoos that twisted with his every movement.

His breath smelled of alcohol and stale cigarettes, his yellowed teeth bared in a sneer.

But it was his eyes—cold, calculating, and full of cruel amusement—that sent a shiver down Belial's spine.

The thug tapped a rusted pipe against his palm, eyes glinting with cruel amusement. "You lost, rat?"

Belial didn't answer. His mind was already calculating his options.

Running? Risky.

Fighting? Even worse.

Talking? Might be the only chance he had.

He had seen this man before.

A figure in the backstreets, a thug with a reputation for taking what he wanted.

"I'm not looking for trouble," he said, keeping his voice level. "Just passing through."

The thug chuckled, a low, menacing sound. "Passing through? You think this is some free-for-all playground? This alley ain't for strays like you. This road was paved by me, these patches grown by me! If you want to pass through here, leave behind the road fees!"

Belial barely stopped himself from scoffing. What kind of thug has a catchphrase?

The absurdity almost made him laugh—almost. But there was no mistaking the glint of the rusted pipe in the man's hand.

"I'm just resting!" Belial replied.

"Resting in my territory?" the man growled.

"This is my turf, kid. You better move along before things get messy. You don't want to see what happens to trespassers who don't respect my rules." He let out a mirthless chuckle.

"So... you better give me something before I make you rest for good." He tapped the rusty pipe in his hand, a metallic clink echoing in the stillness.

Belial's hands curled into fists. What kind of thug had a catchphrase? If he weren't so exhausted, he might have laughed at the absurdity of it. But the pipe in the man's hand was real, and the way he twirled it suggested he wasn't afraid to use it.

"I don't have anything," Belial admitted, lifting his hands slightly to show he wasn't a threat.

The thug's expression darkened.

"Then I'll make you regret sticking around. I'll take something else if you don't have anything of value."

Before Belial could react, the man lunged, his grip like iron as he seized the front of his hoodie and slammed him against the brick wall. Pain exploded through his back, knocking the breath from his lungs.

"Little rats like you don't get to act tough," the thug hissed. "Maybe I'll teach you some respect."

Belial's heart pounded. He had to think fast. His eyes flickered to the side—there, near the dumpster, a rusted metal rod. If he could just reach it—

The thug must have sensed his shift. "What're you looking at, huh?" His grip tightened. "Scared?"

Belial wasn't sure if it was fear or desperation fueling him, but he acted before doubt could settle in. He drove his knee upward, aiming for the thug's gut. The impact was solid, but not enough. The man grunted, stumbling back a step, but he didn't let go.

Belial twisted, wrenching himself free. His fingers closed around the metal rod just as the thug swung the pipe.

Instinct took over. He ducked, the wind of the swing brushing past his ear. Without thinking, he lashed out, the rod colliding with the thug's arm with a sickening crack.

The man howled, staggering back, but he wasn't down. Rage twisted his face. "You little—"

Belial didn't wait. He bolted, feet slamming against the pavement as he tore through the alley.

"GET BACK HERE!"

The thug's furious shouts followed him, but he didn't dare look back.

The city blurred around him—neon lights, towering buildings, the distant wail of sirens.

He pushed himself harder, weaving through side streets, slipping into the maze of Shibuya's underbelly.

Only when he was certain he had lost him did he finally stop. He pressed his back against a cold brick wall, chest heaving.

His hands were trembling.

Adrenaline still coursed through him, but something else had started to creep in—something strange.

A tingling sensation spread through his fingertips, like static dancing over his skin. It was faint, almost like an echo of something long forgotten.

Belial stared at his hands. His breath hitched.

This feeling—

He had felt it before. But that was impossible.

Unless—

The sensation pulsed again, sharper this time, like a whisper curling around his thoughts.

A memory surfaced. The weight of a controller in his hands.

The rush of executing a perfect sequence.

The way the world around him blurred when he was fully immersed in the game, instincts guiding his every move.

It felt like that.

But this wasn't a game.

His fingers twitched involuntarily, and for a brief second, the shadows around him seemed to ripple, bending unnaturally before snapping back into place.

Belial's breath came shallow. He pressed his hand against the wall, grounding himself. He was exhausted, hungry. His mind had to be playing tricks on him.

"Just stress," he muttered under his breath. "That's all."

But deep down, a seed of doubt had been planted. And once it took root, there was no ignoring it.

The city around him pulsed, alive with possibility. He had barely survived the night, but something told him this was just the beginning.

A cold wind swept through the alley, rustling loose papers and carrying the distant sounds of the city. Belial exhaled, steadying himself. He had to keep moving. Had to stay ahead.

Because if tonight had proven anything, it was that the shadows weren't just places to hide.

They were watching.

And something within them had started to stir.