The meeting of unknown

Valen's easy contentment, brought on by a sweet memory, shattered in an instant. Confusion, sharp and sudden, replaced his delight. He reread the lines, his eyes tracing the message again and again, a desperate need to confirm. But there it was; stark and undeniable: an explicit instruction to attend a meeting about which he knew nothing of its purpose.

" Ok, got it. We will be on our way, right away," he typed anyway, his fingers moving almost instinctively. This wasn't just something he could miss; İt was an obligation that both felt urgent and utterly perplexing.

A faint clink from the envelop, where the peculiar message had resided, drew his attention.

Inside, nestled among the folds, were several coins. The genuine, soft smile touched his lips, once again. " That silly Sen," he murmured, his thumb caressing the cool metal. " I hope he didn't leave all his money to me. He needs to take care of himself, too."

The clink of coins was a hollow sound against the sudden silence in Valen's apartment. He counted them again, a tremor in his hand: eight silver. Enough for a week? More than enough. İt was a startling sum; each coin he knew represented a hundred bronzes, a small fortune in itself. Ten could purchase a single gold, a luxury that felt almost absence in its implication of true. Valen pocketed the coins, a cold weight against his palm, and slowly reluctantly, returned the enigmatic letter to its hidden place.

Even before he reached the kitchen, the sweet, savory of omelet wafted towards him, a comforting promise. There it was; a perfectly cooked meal, waiting on the small, worn table.

Their apartment might have been humble-a single room, a narrow corridor, and a kitchen that doubled as their entire dining hall — but it was never without warmth or the simple comfort of food.

After the last savory bite of his omelet, a fleeting warmth settled in Valen's stomach, a stark contrast to the chill that had seeped into his bones since the arrival of the mysterious message. The simple comfort of the meal was a brief anchor before the swirling currents of uncertainty pulled him back.

He moved with a practice ease to the old, creaking closet, it's wooden door groaning in protest, as he pulled it open. Inside, a sparse collection of cloths hung, his school uniform a stark, almost forgotten relic amidst the practical, muted tones of his everyday wear. His hand bypassed the uniform, reaching instead for a worn, dark hoodie and a pair of equally dark, comfortable pants—garments that not only offered warmth, but a subtle of anonymity. He pulled them on, the familiar fabric, a small comfort against the prickle of unease.

As his fingers brushed the edge of the closet door, preparing to close it, his gaze snagged, drawn by an invisible thread, to the empty bed across the small room. Sen's bed. The neatly folded blanket, the undisturbed pillow – a silent testament to absence. Valen's expression, which had just moments ago held a flickle of resolve, crumpled. A shadow deepened around his eyes,pulling the corners of his mouth into a thin, grim line as if battling against an unseen, internal weight.

" It's better, this way," he murmured, his voice barely a whisper, the words tasting like ash. He wasn't speaking of the empty room, but of a heavier burden, an unspoken truth that clung to the air like dust. " His absence-simplifies things. This sudden meeting, forcing me away from home...it could have been...troublesome." his eyes flickered to the letter, clutched in his other hand – a tangible piece of Sen, a familiar comfort. Yet, it was the meeting's unknown purpose, a cryptic message on his phone, that truly etched worry around his eyes, deepening the profound sorrow beneath them.

A sharp breath, a deliberate clenching of his jaw. He forced his gaze away from the silent accusation of the empty bed, pushing the torment back into the recesses of his mind. "No time for this." He thought, the words a harsh command.

With a decisive click, he sealed the apartment door behind him , the sound echoing with a strange finality in the narrow corridor. He tugged at the knob, testing its lock, a ritual born of necessity in these crumbling walls. Satisfied, he turned, his eyes sweeping over the worn, peeling paint, the cracked plaster, the very air thick with the scent of damp and decay. Then, his gaze fell upon the stairs.

" These damn stairs," he muttered, a weary sigh his escaping lips. And indeed, they were damn stairs. Seven flights of them, each step a battle against gravity, and the relentless wear of time. The building's ancient elevator had long since succumbed to despair, a rusted cage of forgotten promises. Water stains snakes down the walls, remnants of countless leaks, and the flickering, unreliable electricity was a constant, unwelcome companion. Each descent was a slow, cautious pilgrimage, his legs already aching in anticipation.

Step, by deliberate step, Valen navigated the precarious descent, the silence of the building broken only by the creak of his shoes and the distant hum of the city. Finally, he emerged from the shadowed maw of the building's entrance, blinking in the harsh, unfiltered daylight.

His gaze swept left, then right, taking in the familiar, depressing tableau of his neighbourhood. It was a landscape of slow decay, canvas painted with neglect. Litter, once sporadic, now seemed to multiply by dayly, spilling from overflowing bins, dancing in the gutters. The concrete pathways were a minefield of potholes, cracked and crumbling, each one a testament to forgotten maintenance.

The Sypen district, where Valen's apartment clung to life, hummed with a desolate quiet, its streets largely deserted save for the purposeful of a few scattered figures—ghosts in their own routines. Vraal wasn't only a low-tier city,it was a patchwork of forgotten corners, and Sypen was at its heart of grey, a district where ordinaries had curdled into an oppressive unattractiveness.

Yet, even in this muted landscape, certain shadows moved with a distinct, predatory grace. They often appeared in twos, threes or fives, their forms draped in an unsettling array of mismatched fabric. Masks, some crude, some strangely ornate, obscured their lower faces but their was no mistaking their allegiance. Across every back, emblazoned boldly, and unmistakably, was the symbol: a fist clenched tight, dripping with crimson. The mark of the Bloodfist gang, the undisputed sovereigns of this derelict territory.

Some carried the gruesome insignia watched directly into their skin—crude, angry scars marring arms, necks, even legs, a permanent testament to their brutal fealty.

They were everywhere, a creeping infestation.

Some lounged by the crumbling curbs, their low murmurs like the rustle of dry leaves. Others engaged the sparse public, their conversation— whether casual or menacing, it was hard to tell — carrying an undercurrent of unspoken threat.

Valen's stomach churned at the sight of them, a wave of cold disgust washing over him. The very air seemed to thicken with a desperstely wished to forget, a particularly bitter memory stirring beneath the surface. He bent his head, tightening his grip on the strap of his worn satchel, focusing on the cracked pavement, determined to melt into the backdrop and escape their predatory gaze, their insidious reach. Every instinct screamed at him; "do not acknowledge their existence!"

As Valen navigated the desolate thoroughfare, his steps a practice rhythm of avoidance, a faint guttural growl snagged at the edges of his hearing, drifting from a distant, shadowed alleyway. He paused, a flicker of unease piercing the dull shroud of his morning. What could that be? The sound raw and unsettling, pulled at him with an invisible string, a discordant note in the Sypen district's quiet decay. Unhidden, his legs veered, drawing him deeper among the cramped, leaning buildings, towards the source of disquiet.

The alley swallowed him whole, a narrow canyon of grime and forgotten promises. And there amidst the gloom, the scene sharpened into a sickening clarity.

A boy, barely more than a teenager — perhaps, a few years Valen's junior — was caught in a cruel circle. Three figures hemmed him in, their postures radiating a chilling familiarity. Or rather, their symbols did; the tightened fist, slick painted with blood, blared from their backs, a stark, abhorrent declaration.

The Bloodfists.

At their center stood Moss, a towering hulk of a teenager, his shoulders broad, muscles straining against a , blood-red jacket, his face though young, held a hardened, callous expression that expressed nothing but pain. Beside him hunched and twitchy, was Slit, the shortest of the trio, his eyes darting with restless, cruel energy, a sneer permanently etched on his lips. And on the far side, detached yet undeniably part of the menacing tableau, was Dane slender, and surprisingly well favored, his features sharp and handsome. His expression was a cool, unreadable mask, a quiet observer in their grim play. He watched, a silent participant in the unfolding cruelty.

" Look, I...I really don't have anything," the boy stammered, his voice barely a whisper, clutched at the tattered edges of his empty pockets. " You have got the wrong person."

Moss's lips curled into a wicked smile, his voice a low, amused rumbles that sent shivers down the boy's spine. " Don't have anything? Now, I don't think that's quite true, little rabbit."

He lunged forward suddenly, not with a punch, but with a hard shove, that sent the boy stumbling back against the wall, a sharp gasp escaping him. Moss chuckled, clearly enjoying the terrified flinch.

Slit snickered, anticipating the inevitable. Dane on his part, remained impassive. His eyes however, flickered, not to the boy, but Moss, then back to the boy's terrified face.

Moss looked at Dane, giving him a heavy look, and as if on cue, or perhaps just going through the motions of their twisted game, Dane pushed off the wall, he pulled back his arm and a fist, surprisingly quick despite its seemingly indifferent intent, arced toward the boy's face.

Just as the blow was about to connect, a sudden, swift blur of motion. Valen appeared before the punch, his hand shooting out to intercept Dane's fist. He caught the punch, squarely in his palm, holding it firm, his expression emotionless.

Moss infuriated by the intervention, snarled.

" Haw dare you," he lashed out with his free hand, a wild, a powerful punch that squarely connected with Valen's face.

Valen's face snapped to the side from the impact, slowly turning again.

But when Moss looked at him again, a chilling sensation, cold and sharp, shaked through his gut. He stared into Valen's eyes, which now faintly glowed with an otherworldly purple light. Before Moss could even process the terrifying sight, Valen moved. Swiftly, powerfully, he drove his fist into Moss's chest. The air exploded from Moss's lungs as he was sent flying, before collapsing to the ground, not moving again.

The young man who had now a savior, fighting for him, only had one thought.

" Who the hell is this person?"