The rain blurred everything, but Eli’s focus had never been sharper.

Time seemed to stretch thin, drawn tight like a wire about to snap, vibrating with tension.

The masked man lunged first.

His twin daggers moved like fangs in the dark, slicing at the air with a speed Eli barely had time to register. He twisted his body, the broken katana catching one of the blades with a sharp metallic clang that echoed across the ruined bridge, a harsh sound swallowed almost instantly by the storm.

Pain flared across Eli’s shoulder as the second dagger found its mark — a shallow cut — but enough to paint the rain with a thin, trembling line of his blood.

Eli stumbled back, boots skidding on the slick concrete. The masked man smiled beneath the soaked fabric, sensing the weakness, pressing forward without mercy.

But Eli was not a boy hiding in the rain anymore.

He was something else now.

Something the storm itself had tried — and failed — to drown.

With a growl low in his throat, Eli pivoted on his heel, bringing the blunt edge of his broken katana crashing into the masked man's side. The force of it sent the man staggering sideways, nearly losing his footing on the crumbling bridge, arms flailing for balance.

Eli didn’t wait.

There was no time for hesitation.

Hesitation was death.

He closed the distance between them with brutal efficiency, swinging again. This time, the masked man blocked with crossed daggers, sparks flying as metal clashed against metal. Their faces were only inches apart now, eyes locked — predator against predator, breathing harsh and ragged.

“You should have stayed hidden,” the masked man hissed through gritted teeth, his voice full of venom.

Eli didn’t respond. Words meant nothing here.

Only survival.

He broke away suddenly, feinting left, then whipping around with a sharp, low sweep of his sword. The masked man jumped, avoiding the blade by a breath, but Eli had already shifted his momentum, bringing his elbow up hard into the man's ribs with a satisfying crack.

A sharp grunt escaped the masked man as he stumbled, dropping one of his daggers with a clatter that rang across the empty bridge.

For a split second, Eli saw vulnerability.

And he took it.

Driving forward, Eli slammed his broken katana straight into the masked man’s chest — not deep enough to kill, but enough to knock the air from his lungs and drive him to his knees.

The man crumpled to one knee, gasping, clutching at the wound.

Eli stood over him, rain streaming down his face like tears he refused to shed, the world around him fading into a dull hum of blood and thunder.

“Who sent you?” Eli asked, voice low, almost a whisper.

The masked man chuckled through the blood bubbling in his mouth.

“You already know,” he rasped.

And then, without warning, he drove a hidden blade from his sleeve upward, straight at Eli’s heart.

Eli barely twisted in time, the blade grazing his ribs instead. Pain burned down his side, white-hot, but he didn’t falter.

With a snarl, he grabbed the man's wrist and wrenched it backward until he heard the sickening snap of bone.

The masked man screamed — a raw, animal sound — before Eli silenced him with a savage strike from the hilt of his katana, sending him sprawling unconscious across the broken bridge.

For a moment, there was only the sound of rain and Eli’s ragged breathing, heavy and uneven.

He stood there, shaking, the broken katana hanging loose at his side. Blood, both his and the masked man’s, mixed with the rain at his feet, forming small rivers that slithered into the cracks of the bridge.

Eli wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, tasting iron and something darker — fear.

There would be others.

He knew that now.

This was not random.

This was a hunt.

And he was the prey.

But Eli wasn’t ready to die yet.

Not while the storm still called his name, not while the fire still burned faintly inside him.

Without another glance at the broken body behind him, Eli turned and walked deeper into the mist, the rain swallowing his silhouette whole.

In the distance, unseen eyes watched him go.

The war had only just begun.

The rain had not stopped.

It beat against Aren’s bare shoulders like tiny fists, each droplet cold enough to cut into his skin.

He stood there, unmoving, as if the bridge itself had grown up around him and claimed him as part of its ruins.

His katana, broken and worn, scraped against the concrete.

The blade tip had lodged itself into a crack on the ground, steadying him like a crutch for a soul too tired to stand alone.

Rainwater pooled around his boots, swirling into small, meaningless whirlpools before disappearing down the shattered gaps in the bridge.

A single crow cawed above, its black wings slicing through the grey sky as it perched on a broken streetlight.

It stared at Aren without fear — a silent witness to the remnants of a boy who had long since abandoned hope.

"Even death grows curious," Aren thought.

He gripped the katana tighter. His knuckles whitened; his fingers trembled, not from weakness, but from the rage buried deep inside his chest — a rage too old to burn brightly anymore. Now, it simply smoldered, dangerous and quiet.

The world around him blurred.

For a moment, Aren was no longer standing on the bridge.

He was a child again — a small, forgotten thing huddled in the corner of a rotting house.

The window was shattered. Rain poured through the cracks, soaking everything. His tiny hands wrapped around his knees as he stared out into the storm, wishing the rain would wash him away too.

But it never did.

The vision faded, and the broken bridge returned to him.

The cold crept deeper into his bones, but Aren did not move.

There was nothing left to return to.

No home. No faces. No names.

Only the endless grey stretching above and below, and the weight of a sword he had no reason to carry anymore.

He closed his eyes for a breath he didn’t believe in.

That’s when he felt it —

A shift in the air.

His eyes snapped open.

Far ahead, on the other side of the bridge, a figure emerged from the mist.

At first, it was just a shadow, twisted by the falling rain.

But as the figure drew closer, Aren could make out the outline of a man cloaked in black, a mask hiding his face, twin blades glinting in each hand.

Aren did not need to ask who he was.

He already knew.

The masked man stopped a dozen steps away, the rain pooling at his feet.

“You're still breathing, Aren?” the figure said, voice distorted by the storm.

“I thought the rain would've swallowed you by now.”

Aren's lips barely moved as he answered, voice low and raw.

"The storm fears me."

For a moment, there was silence — heavy, electric.

The masked man chuckled, a dry, broken sound.

Above them, lightning ripped across the sky.

The bridge shuddered beneath their feet.

And in that brief, white-hot flash, the two figures stared at each other — neither willing to be the first to draw blood.

Beneath the endless rain, the true war was about to begin.

Not for victory. Not for pride.

But for the simple, brutal right to exist.

Aren shifted his stance, broken katana ready.

The masked man lowered into a crouch, twin daggers flashing.

And then —

the world narrowed to the space between them

The rain blurred everything, but Aren’s focus had never been sharper.

Time seemed to stretch thin, drawn tight like a wire about to snap.

The masked man lunged first.

His twin daggers moved like fangs in the dark, slicing at the air with a speed Aren barely had time to register. He twisted his body, the broken katana catching one of the blades with a sharp metallic clang that echoed across the ruined bridge.

Pain flared across Aren’s shoulder as the second dagger found its mark — a shallow cut — but enough to paint the rain with a thin line of his blood.

Aren stumbled back, boots skidding on the slick concrete. The masked man smiled beneath the fabric, sensing the weakness, pressing forward without mercy.

But Aren was not a boy hiding in the rain anymore.

He was something else now.

Something the storm itself had tried — and failed — to drown.

With a growl low in his throat, Aren pivoted on his heel, bringing the blunt edge of his broken katana crashing into the masked man's side. The force of it sent the man staggering sideways, nearly losing his footing on the crumbling bridge.

Aren didn’t wait.

There was no time for hesitation.

Hesitation was death.

He closed the distance between them with brutal efficiency, swinging again. This time, the masked man blocked with crossed daggers, sparks flying as metal clashed against metal. Their faces were only inches apart now, eyes locked — predator against predator.

“You should have stayed hidden,” the masked man hissed through gritted teeth.

Aren didn’t respond. Words meant nothing here.

Only survival.

He broke away suddenly, feinting left, then whipping around with a sharp, low sweep of his sword. The masked man jumped, avoiding the blade by a breath, but Aren had already shifted his momentum, bringing his elbow up hard into the man's ribs.

A sharp grunt escaped the masked man as he stumbled, dropping one of his daggers with a clatter.

For a split second, Aren saw vulnerability.

And he took it.

Driving forward, Aren slammed his broken katana straight into the masked man’s chest — not deep enough to kill, but enough to knock the air from his lungs.

The man crumpled to one knee, gasping, clutching at the wound.

Aren stood over him, rain streaming down his face like tears he refused to shed.

“Who sent you?” Aren asked, voice low, almost a whisper.

The masked man chuckled through the blood bubbling in his mouth.

“You already know,” he rasped.

And then, without warning, he drove a hidden blade from his sleeve upward, straight at Aren’s heart.

Aren barely twisted in time, the blade grazing his ribs instead. Pain burned down his side, but he didn’t falter.

With a snarl, he grabbed the man's wrist and wrenched it backward until he heard the sickening snap of bone.

The masked man screamed — a raw, animal sound — before Aren silenced him with a savage strike from the hilt of his katana, sending him sprawling unconscious across the broken bridge.

For a moment, there was only the sound of rain and Aren’s ragged breathing.

He stood there, shaking, the broken katana hanging loose at his side. Blood, both his and the masked man’s, mixed with the rain at his feet, forming small rivers that slithered into the cracks of the bridge.

Aren wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, tasting iron.

There would be others.

He knew that now.

This was not random.

This was a hunt.

And he was the prey.

But Aren wasn’t ready to die yet.

Not while the storm still called his name.

Without another glance at the broken body behind him, Aren turned and walked deeper into the mist, the rain swallowing his silhouette whole.

In the distance, unseen eyes watched him go.

The war had only just begun.