World Cry

Something flickered in Yan's eyes—calculation, hesitation, something Zephyr couldn't quite place. For a moment, they stared at each other, tension wrapping around them like a tightening noose. Zephyr's muscles coiled, his body ready to lunge or flee. Yan's face twisted, his jaw working as if he were wrestling with something inside.

Then he exhaled, long and slow. His shoulders sagged.

"After all the times you had my back… I'll do the same for you now," Yan murmured. His voice was low, rough with something that could have been guilt—or maybe just exhaustion. "I won't ask any questions."

Zephyr's heart thudded against his ribs, but the tight knot in his chest began to loosen. His body, primed for flight, relaxed—just slightly. He gave a small nod of gratitude, though his eyes remained wary.

Yan shifted, moving to help him with the gap in the wall. Zephyr crouched, turning his body to slide into the narrow crawl. He was almost through when he caught the faintest glint—metal catching the moonlight.

The knife came fast. Too fast.

Aiming low, like a serpent's strike, it sought his thigh—an immobilizing blow.

Zephyr's instincts ignited. His body moved before his mind fully caught up. His hand shot down, catching the blade's edge. Pain seared through his palm as the steel bit into flesh, warm blood immediately slicking his grip. He grunted through gritted teeth, but he held the knife firm, preventing it from driving into his leg.

Yan's eyes widened—realizing his first and best chance had failed.

Zephyr surged forward, using his weight to drive Yan backward onto the ground. They hit the dirt hard, limbs tangling in a desperate struggle. Zephyr fought not as Zephyr from Earth, not as the cautious thinker—he fought as Ra'el, the street rat who had survived Taisora's slums with his fists and grit.

Yan writhed beneath him, his face contorted in desperation. His free hand clawed at Zephyr's hood, trying to pull it back, as if exposing his face would buy him time. His grip was weak—he knew he had already lost.

The knife wavered between them, gripped by both their hands, its point trembling inches from Zephyr's side.

Yan's breath was ragged, panic seeping into his eyes.

Zephyr saw it then—the truth.

The hesitation earlier—it had never been about loyalty. It was just pure calculation. Weighing risk against reward. The bounty must have been obscene. Only gold could make Yan gamble like this.

"How much?" Zephyr hissed through his teeth, still straining for control.

"How much?!"

"A…A hundred gold," Yan gasped, sweat mixing with dirt on his face. "Alive… they want you alive."

Zephyr's heart nearly stopped.

A hundred gold coins. That was more than a year's worth of pickpocketing. A year's worth with Scarface taking a share. Enough to buy his way out of the slums, to live like a free man—away from Scarface's shadow, away from the Sho Clan's reach.

Zephyr's blood turned cold. That kind of bounty… it was not a price put on a street rat. It was the price on something rare—something dangerous.

Him.

The knowledge sent a fresh surge of fear and rage through him.

Yan, sensing his growing desperation, tried a new tactic. His mouth opened, lungs expanding—ready to scream.

Zephyr reacted without thinking.

With a burst of strength, he wrenched the knife free from Yan's grasp. The blade sliced deeper into his palm, but he barely felt it. He reversed the grip in an instant, his body acting faster than his mind could object.

The knife cut across Yan's throat in a clean arc.

Hot blood sprayed across Zephyr's face.

Yan's eyes bulged with shock—then terror. His mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air. His hands clawed at his throat, trying to hold in the life that was pouring out.

The sound—the wet, choking struggle—was worse than any scream.

Yan's legs kicked violently, boots scuffing the dirt. His body spasmed beneath Zephyr, limbs flailing in the futile fight against death. His eyes—wide, pleading—locked onto Zephyr's.

And Zephyr watched. Frozen.

He watched the light fade from those eyes.

He watched the twitching slow.

He watched Yan's mouth stop moving.

He watched his friend die.

The weight of it hit him like a sledgehammer. His breath caught in his chest. His hand, slick with blood, trembled around the knife. His other hand—the wounded one—dripped red onto the ground.

A life, snuffed out.

Just like that.

The boy who had once shared stale bread with him. The boy who had laughed beside him after a successful heist. The boy who had slept beside him in the cold, dreaming of freedom.

Dead.

Because of him.

Zephyr's stomach twisted. He stumbled back, his eyes locked on the body. Yan's face was frozen in that final, desperate expression—fear and betrayal etched into his features. His lifeless eyes stared into nothing.

A stray dog padded into the alley, drawn by the scent of blood. It sniffed at Yan's body, its nose nudging the still-warm flesh.

Zephyr gagged, forcing it down.

Survive.

The word cut through the fog in his mind.

Survive.

He staggered toward the gap in the wall, heart hammering. His body moved on instinct, dragging him forward even as his mind reeled.

He crawled through the narrow passage, scraping his knees and elbows against rough stone. Each shuffle forward felt like dragging chains.

When he emerged into the night beyond the wall, the city lay behind him.

The wilderness stretched ahead—dark and uncertain.

Zephyr stumbled into the brush, his steps uneven. Blood from his hand smeared against his tunic. The faint metallic scent mixed with the lingering stink of the sewers.

Each breath was shallow. His thoughts were fractured—flashes of Yan's face, the spray of blood, the choking sounds.

But he kept moving.

Survive.

He was free of Taisora. But the price was carved into his memory.

Yan's lifeless eyes would haunt him.

And the bounty—one hundred gold coins—would chase him.

Because someone knew what he was.

And they would never stop hunting him.