Injured Man

The amber glow of the setting sun bathed the streets in a warm hue as Ethan pedaled through the narrow alleyway near his school. It was a shortcut he often took on his way home—usually quiet, save for the occasional vagrant lingering in the corners. Nothing of consequence ever happened here.

But today was different.

As he rounded a bend, his gaze fell upon a man slumped in the shadowed corner of the alley, his body battered and smeared with blood.

He appeared to be in his early thirties, clad in a worn, dark-colored jacket that bore the marks of a struggle. A deep gash at his temple oozed fresh blood, and his dust-covered shirt was wrinkled and torn—evidence that he had taken a severe beating. Though his breathing was shallow, he was still alive.

Ethan instinctively scanned his surroundings. The alley was deserted; there was no sign of another soul. But something about the scene didn't sit right with him. A man in this state—bruised, bleeding, and barely conscious—was no mere drunkard or wandering vagrant. The wounds on his body weren't the result of an accident.

Was this a street fight? Or something far more sinister?

A sense of unease prickled at the back of Ethan's mind as he approached cautiously, his steps deliberate and measured.

"Hey, are you still alive?"

At the sound of his voice, the man stirred, forcing his eyes open with great effort. A flicker of wariness crossed his gaze, his expression guarded, almost defensive. His voice was hoarse.

"…Who are you?"

Ethan shrugged. "Shouldn't I be the one asking that? What the hell happened to you?"

The man did not answer. He attempted to push himself up but winced in pain and collapsed back against the wall, his face contorted in agony.

Ethan remained where he was, observing him in silence. He made no immediate move to help. A man in this condition, lying in a desolate alleyway, refusing aid—it was far from an ordinary situation.

"…Want me to call an ambulance?" Ethan asked, testing him.

"No!" The man's response was immediate and sharp, a flicker of agitation flashing in his eyes. "The police… they can't know."

That single sentence sent Ethan's instincts into high alert.

A typical victim would seek help, not avoid it. If this man was refusing medical attention and actively evading the authorities, then it begged the question—what was he hiding?

Ethan narrowed his eyes, studying him carefully, thoughts racing through his mind.

—A fugitive on the run?

—Someone tangled in dangerous affairs?

—Or was he simply a liar, playing a role?

Each possibility flickered through Ethan's mind as he pressed further. "Then who exactly are you? And how did you end up like this?"

The man hesitated, his lips pressing into a thin line before he finally spoke. "…I got involved with the wrong people. Ended up in something I shouldn't have."

It was a well-crafted response—vague, ambiguous, leaving little room for further probing. He neither admitted nor denied anything, painting himself as a mere casualty of circumstance.

But Ethan wasn't so easily convinced.

"Oh?" He crossed his arms, his tone unreadable. "And by that, do you mean unpaid debts? Or did you take part in something illegal?"

A flicker of something—perhaps guilt, perhaps irritation—flashed across the man's face. In a low voice, he murmured, "I saw something I shouldn't have. Now they want me dead."

"They?" Ethan caught the crucial word immediately. "Who are 'they'?"

The man fell silent, his expression grim. A few seconds passed before he finally muttered, "…People you don't want to cross."

Ethan frowned. The story was too generic, too deliberately vague. This man wasn't just a victim of unfortunate circumstances—he was hiding something.

"How do you know they're still after you?" Ethan asked.

The man let out a humorless chuckle. "Isn't it obvious? When someone wants you dead, they don't just let it go."

Ethan said nothing, simply holding his gaze.

Was there truth in his words? Or was this all a performance?

Despite his skepticism, one thing was clear—whether this man was a criminal or a hunted target, he was in no state to fend for himself. And at this moment, Ethan was the only one willing to acknowledge his existence.

"So, you have nowhere to go?" Ethan asked evenly.

The man nodded. He hesitated for a beat, then looked up at Ethan. "I don't expect something for nothing. If you help me find a safe place, I'll owe you one."

Ethan fell into contemplation. His instincts screamed that this was dangerous, that getting involved could lead to something far beyond his control. But another thought crossed his mind—if he left this man here, he would likely die.

"…Fine," Ethan finally sighed. "I live nearby. I'll take you there and patch you up. After that, we'll talk."

The man gave a weak nod, forcing himself upright. Ethan stepped forward, gripping his arm to steady him. Though his guard remained up, he understood one thing—there was no turning back now.

When they reached Ethan's home, he treated the man's wounds while subtly probing for more information. Yet, no matter how he pried, the man remained frustratingly evasive.

Then, just as Ethan was weighing his next move, the man's expression suddenly darkened.

"They're here."

Ethan followed his gaze to the window. Across the street, a black SUV had pulled up, its engine idling. Inside, several men in dark jackets sat motionless, their eyes scanning the area as though hunting for something—or someone.

A heavy feeling settled in Ethan's stomach.

"You're sure it's them?" he asked quietly.

The man's voice was low, firm. "No doubt about it. They've found me." He exhaled sharply, eyes locked onto the vehicle. "Now, we have two choices—run, or fight."

Ethan's fingers curled into a fist as he surveyed the situation. He wasn't the type to flee, not when the enemy had already marked their presence.

"Do we have weapons?" Ethan asked.

The man blinked, caught off guard by the question. Then, unexpectedly, he let out a small, wry chuckle. "You've got guts, kid."

Ethan didn't reply. His focus remained on the SUV, watching as the doors slowly creaked open.

"They're getting out."

The man's expression turned grim. His voice dropped to a whisper.

"…Looks like negotiations are off the table."