Bloody rain

The morning air was cold. Not the crisp, refreshing kind that made you feel alive but the kind that sank into your bones, heavy and unmoving. The streets of Ol Traffort, usually filled with warmth and chatter, felt distant, blurred, like a world he was watching from the outside.

Elliot's small hands clutched a stack of newspapers, ink smudged on his fingers, a thin coat barely shielding him from the wind. His feet moved out of habit, weaving through the waking city, but the usual spark in his step was gone. No more racing against the sunrise. No more playful banter with the shopkeepers. Just one foot in front of the other because stopping meant thinking, and thinking meant remembering.

"Morning, kid." A baker waved at him from his stall, voice softer than usual. "You eat yet?"

Elliot shook his head but forced a half-smile. "Not yet. Gotta finish my route first."

The baker hesitated, then tossed him a small bread roll. "On the house. You look like a ghost walking."

He caught it out of reflex, his fingers tightening around the warm crust. It smelled fresh—comforting, even—but the hunger gnawing at his stomach felt distant. He muttered a quiet "thanks" before tucking it away for later.

As he turned the corner, his eyes instinctively flickered toward Vanveer's Toy Shop. The once-familiar sight now felt... empty. The wooden sign creaked in the wind, and the window display was unchanged since the last time he had stood there, his nose pressed against the glass. The compass was still there.

He should've been excited, should've pressed his face to the window like before. But his grandfather's laughter no longer echoed behind him, and suddenly, it didn't seem to matter anymore.

A deep breath. A shake of his head.

"Let's keep moving," he thought.

The weight of the letters in his bag felt heavier than usual as he went door to door, slipping them into mail slots with practiced ease. Some were bills, some were invitations, and some he knew were condolences. He had delivered enough of those in the past year to recognize the way people hesitated before opening them.

As he neared the last house on his route, Elliot slowed to a stop, blinking in confusion.

"…Wait a second." He tilted his head. "Why am I standing in front of my own house?"

He glanced down at the last envelope in his hands. His fingers brushed over the name written in faded ink.

Gerald Shane.

His breath hitched. It had been a year since Gerald had passed, a year since anyone had written to him. Yet, seeing his grandfather's name inked across the envelope sent a strange, twisting ache through his chest.

Elliot swallowed hard and pushed open the door. The hinges let out a quiet creak as he stepped inside.

The house was dim, the evening light barely filtering through the dusty windows. It was quiet, too quiet. The kind of quiet that made the walls feel heavier, the air colder.

His gaze swept across the room. The floor hadn't been swept in days, specks of dust catching the faint glow of lantern light. The dishes sat untouched in the sink. Chairs were out of place, just slightly askew—almost like someone had left in a hurry and never returned.

And yet, in the middle of it all, untouched and unmoving…

His grandfather's chair.

Still polished. Still sturdy. Still gleaming, just like always.

No matter how much the rest of the house had changed, that chair remained untouched—sturdy, polished, and unwavering against time.

Elliot sank into it, the familiar creak beneath him almost comforting. He ran his fingers along the edge of the envelope, hesitating. Though the ink had faded with age, the name was still unmistakably clear.

Gerald Shane.

He swallowed, feeling an ache in his chest. It had been a year since anyone had written to his grandfather. The house was empty now, silent in a way that didn't feel peaceful, only hollow. He took a shaky breath and carefully slid a finger beneath the seal, about to open it when—

CRASH!

Glass shattered.

Elliot flinched as a rock flew through the window, scattering shards across the wooden floor. A cold gust of wind blew in, carrying the distant sound of laughter. He didn't need to guess who it was.

The usual idiots.

Gritting his teeth, he rushed to the broken window, scanning the streets outside. The setting sun cast long shadows, and the rain had started drizzling, making the cobblestones slick. A group of kids bolted down the road, their laughter fading into the distance. But one of them, one of them he recognized instantly.

Babel.

A familiar heat crawled up Elliot's spine. They had always been pests, but after his grandfather died, they had grown worse, shoving him in the mud, stealing from his delivery bag, and calling him names like it was a game.

Tonight, he was done letting it slide.

Without thinking, Elliot bolted after them, his feet slamming against the wet ground. The air was thick with the scent of rain and dirt, and his breath came in sharp bursts. The other kids scattered into alleyways, disappearing like rats, but Babel wasn't fast enough.

The moment he got close enough, Elliot lunged.

They crashed to the ground, rolling across the street. Elliot felt the sting of gravel scraping his skin, but he didn't care. He pinned Babel down, gripping his collar.

"Leave me alone!" Elliot shouted, his voice raw.

Babel snarled, shoving him back. "Get off me, Black Cat!"

Elliot's hands curled into fists. He hated that nickname. It wasn't just about his black hair, it was meant to say he was cursed, bad luck, and unwanted.

"And what's your problem, huh? Too busy eating drain mud to fight properly, Drain Eater?" Babel sneered.

Elliot snapped.

With a snarl, Babel threw the first punch. It cracked against Elliot's cheek, sending him staggering to the side. But he didn't have time to recover—another punch slammed into his gut, stealing the air from his lungs.

Elliot gasped, but his instincts took over. He swung blindly, his knuckles colliding with Babel's nose. A sickening crunch followed as blood spurted out. Babel howled, staggering back, hands clutching his face.

Elliot barely had time to smirk before Babel charged again, tackling him into the side of a barrel. The impact rattled his bones. Then came the kicks, hard and fast, slamming into his ribs and stomach. Each one sent sharp jolts of pain through his body.

"Not so tough now, are you, Drain Eater?" Babel sneered, raising his foot for another kick.

Elliot rolled onto his side, coughing, his fingers digging into the muddy ground. His vision swam, but he gritted his teeth and forced himself up.

"You talk too much," he growled.

And then he threw himself at Babel again.

This time, there was no form, no technique—just raw, desperate violence. Elliot drove his fist into Babel's jaw and felt the resistance of bone against his knuckles. Babel yelped but swung back, his fist slamming into Elliot's eye. Stars burst in his vision, but he didn't stop. He tackled Babel to the ground again, straddling him, and began swinging wildly.

Elliot swung his right fist at Babel's face, forcing him to raise his arms in defense. Without hesitation, he followed with a left hook, making Babel shift his guard—just as planned. The moment the right side opened up, Elliot drove his elbow straight into his jaw, rattling his teeth with a brutal crack. Felt the warm, sticky splash of blood against his elbow. Babel struggled, hands clawing at Elliot's arms, nails digging into his skin. He bucked his hips, trying to throw Elliot off, but Elliot was done taking hits.

So, he did the first thing that came to mind.

He bit down on Babel's ear. Hard.

Babel's scream tore through the rain-filled streets as Elliot tasted blood and flesh between his teeth. The bitter metallic tang made him want to gag, but he didn't let go until Babel's cries turned hoarse. Then, with a final jerk of his head, he ripped his mouth away, spitting blood onto the ground.

Babel writhed beneath him, clutching the side of his head. "Y-You fucking animal"

Elliot didn't let him finish. He drove his knee into Babel's stomach, forcing the air out of his lungs with a whoosh. Then, standing up on shaky legs, he delivered a swift, vicious kick between Babel's legs.

Babel's body curled inward instantly, a strangled croak escaping his lips as he collapsed onto the ground. Elliot, panting, didn't stop there. He raised his foot and stomped down onto Babel's face one last time, leaving him groaning in the dirt.

Then, finally, he stepped back, chest rising and falling, blood dripping from his split lip onto the rain-soaked ground.

Elliot swayed slightly, the exhaustion settling deep into his bones. His head throbbed. His knuckles were raw. His entire body ached.

He glanced at Babel, who was curled up on the ground, clutching his ear with one hand and his bruised stomach with the other. His face was twisted in pain, and he was barely holding back a whimper.

Elliot exhaled sharply, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Huh… you know, your ear tasted worse than the mud in the drains." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "And that's coming from your very own 'Drain Eater.'"

Babel let out a choked growl, his glare filled with hatred, but Elliot simply leaned his head back against the alley wall, letting out a tired chuckle.

"Guess I finally found something filthier than the sewers."

"And honestly," he muttered, breathing heavily, "Hope you weren't too attached to that ear, Babel. Might've just improved your looks."

Elliot wiped the blood from his lips, exhaling sharply as he steadied himself. His whole body ached, his knuckles burned, and his vision blurred for a second, not just from the pain but from the raindrops mixing with the quiet sting of unshed tears. Whether they were from exhaustion, rage, or something deeper, he didn't know. Didn't care. He noticed movement in the distance.

Babel's friends.

Six of them. Charging straight toward him like a pack of wild dogs.

For a brief second, instinct screamed at him to run. His legs tensed, ready to bolt. But then, as he glanced around, reality sank in, there was nowhere to run. Not that it mattered. His legs wouldn't carry him even if he tried. His fingers twitched. His breath steadied.

Instead of running, he straightened his back, letting the rain wash over his bruised face. With a tired grin, he unwrapped the remains of his torn shirt and wound it around his battered knuckles, the soaked fabric clinging to his skin.

A dry chuckle left his lips.

"A whole six-course meal? Man, I usually only get scraps." He spat a bit of blood to the side, rolling his shoulders. "Guess tonight's a feast."

The boys were almost on him now.

Elliot spread his arms wide, his grin turning manic despite the dull throb of pain crawling through his body. His voice tore through the rain, wild and unhinged.

"C'MON, YOU BASTARDS! I'LL TASTE ALL YOUR EARS TONIGHT!"