Shadows Beneath

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

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