I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
https://www.patréon.com/emperordragon
________________________________________
The alley was a narrow, forgotten vein running between the city's old brick buildings, lit only by a single, flickering bulb that buzzed like a trapped insect. Rusted fire escapes zigzagged up the walls, their shadows stretching and bending across the damp concrete. Every sound was amplified—the distant wail of a siren, the drip of water from a leaky pipe, the soft shuffling of shoes on grit. The darkness here felt thick, almost tangible, as if it wanted to swallow up anyone foolish enough to wander in.
In the midst of that gloom, a man loomed over a woman. He was hunched, shoulders tense, jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscles twitching even from a distance. In one hand, he gripped a gun—black, ugly, and trembling slightly. With the other, he dug through her purse, his movements frantic and uncoordinated, like a raccoon desperate for scraps in a garbage can. His breathing was ragged, almost animalistic, and every so often he'd glance over his shoulder, as if expecting the shadows themselves to come alive and attack him.
"Where's the money, huh?" he barked, voice hoarse and edged with panic. The veins in his neck stood out like ropes. "Where is it?"
The woman shrank away from him, pressing herself against the cold brick wall. Tears shimmered in her eyes, her hands trembling as she tried to stammer out a response. There was no defiance in her, no hint of deception—just pure, unfiltered terror. The scent of fear hung in the air, sharp and unmistakable.
I stepped forward, letting my footsteps echo deliberately in the silence. I kept my posture relaxed, my hands visible, my expression unreadable.
"What did you expect?" I asked, my tone light, almost mocking, as if we were discussing the weather and not a life-or-death situation. "You think she's walking around with wads of cash like she's Tony Montana? It's all digital now. You going to make her wire you the money, or just ask for her PIN and hope for the best?"
The man whirled around, gun swinging toward me with all the grace of a cornered animal. His eyes flicked between me and the woman, wild and uncertain, as if he couldn't decide who was the greater threat.
"No! Don't hurt him!" the woman cried, her voice cracking with fear. She took a hesitant step toward me, her concern for my safety eclipsing her own terror. I saw it in her eyes—a desperate, protective instinct that made no sense.
For a moment, I faltered. Even with her own life on the line, she was worried about me? The realization unsettled me, stirring something deep inside I couldn't quite name.
The man kept the gun trained on me, his hand shaking. I reached into my jacket slowly, deliberately, and pulled out a thick clip of cash. Without breaking eye contact, I tossed it to the ground at his feet.
"There's a thousand dollars there. Maybe more," I said, my voice steady. "Take it. Walk away. No one gets hurt."
He hesitated for a split second, then snatched up the cash, thumbing through the bills with greedy, trembling fingers. His eyes glittered with a desperate hunger, as if this money was his last lifeline.
"You carry this kind of cash?" he sneered, suspicion and envy mingling in his tone. "Yeah, you're the jackpot."
I sighed, the sound heavy with disappointment. "You should've walked away."
He blinked, confusion flickering across his face.
In a blur, I knocked the gun from his hand. It clattered against the wall, skidding out of reach. My fist connected with his abdomen—not hard enough to break anything, but enough to knock the wind out of him. He doubled over, gasping, then staggered upright and hobbling into the darkness, clutching the cash as if it were a holy relic.
The alley was quiet again. The only sounds were the distant hum of the city and the soft, uneven breathing of the woman behind me.
I turned to leave, my footsteps echoing in the silence. One step. Two.
"Wait," she called out, her voice barely above a whisper.
I stopped, caught off guard by the gentleness in her tone. It wasn't a command, or a plea. It was something softer, more vulnerable—an unspoken question hanging in the air.
I glanced over my shoulder, the dim light catching her face. Her eyes were wide, searching, filled with a confusion and longing that mirrored something deep inside me.
Who are you, lady? I thought, but the words stayed trapped behind my teeth.
We stood there, suspended in the hush of the alley, two strangers bound by a moment that felt heavier than either of us could understand.
She didn't speak. She just looked at me—not with fear, or even gratitude, but with something deeper. Something that felt like standing at the edge of a precipice, unsure whether to leap or retreat.
Seconds stretched into eternity. She opened her mouth, then closed it, her gaze never leaving mine. It was as if she was searching my face for answers to questions she couldn't bring herself to ask.
I turned away, ready to disappear into the night. One step. Another.
And then, just as I was about to vanish, her voice—fragile, trembling, yet impossibly piercing—cut through the darkness.
"You look so much like your father."
The words hit me like a physical blow. My body froze, every muscle locked in place. Not out of confusion, but from a sudden, overwhelming clarity.
That scent, that sense of familiarity I'd felt from the moment I saw her—it all came rushing back in a tidal wave of realization.
The woman who gave birth to me.
My biological mother.
I didn't turn around. I didn't breathe. The night itself seemed to hold its breath with me, waiting for whatever would come next.