Chapter 50: Flashback (Pt 4)
Several months later,
Survival on the streets was a brutal, relentless grind. The small, scarred boy rapidly evolved from a frightened runaway into a ghost of the urban underworld. He stole food from street vendors, picked pockets in crowded transit hubs, and slept in abandoned subway tunnels with a stolen knife clutched to his chest. He learned to move without making a sound, to read the malicious intent of strangers before they acted, and to always strike first.
He grew feral, ruthless, and terrifyingly efficient.
On a freezing, rain-swept evening, Roy was cutting through a secluded, industrial alleyway, his head ducked against the wind, his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of a stolen jacket.
"Hey. Little rat." A voice drifted into his ears as he walked past.
Roy stopped and looked up.
Blocking his path were two older teenagers, likely low-level gang prospects looking to make a quick buck off a homeless kid. One was holding a flick-knife, the blade catching the dim light of a flickering streetlamp. The other was cracking his knuckles, grinning maliciously.
"Give us all the cash you have," the teenager with the knife sneered, taking a slow, predatory step forward. "Or we gut you and take it off your corpse."
Roy didn’t speak. He didn’t show an ounce of fear. He just stood perfectly still in the rain, waiting.
"Are you deaf, kid?" The teenager lunged, reaching out with his free hand to grab the collar of Roy’s jacket.
Roy moved. His right hand shot behind his back, drawing his stolen hunting knife from his waistband. In one fluid, blindingly fast motion, Roy stepped inside the teenager’s guard and drove the blade fiercely upward, burying it deep into the soft cartilage of the teenager’s throat.
The teenager’s eyes bulged in shock. He dropped his flick-knife, his hands flying up to clutch his neck as blood sprayed wildly over the wet asphalt. He collapsed to his knees, choking, and fell face-first into the puddles, dead.
The second teenager froze in dismay, staring at his dead friend. Panic completely overrode his logic. With a furious yell, he charged, throwing a wild, clumsy punch at the kid’s head.
Using his small stature as an advantage, Roy dropped low, sliding effortlessly across the wet pavement directly under the teenager’s swinging arm. As he slid behind the older boy, Roy slashed outward, driving his blade deep behind the teenager’s left knee, completely severing the hamstring.
The teenager cried out in agony, his leg buckling instantly as he crashed heavily onto his knees.
Roy was back on his feet in the span of a second. He stepped up behind the kneeling boy and drove the knife brutally into his lower back, burying it to the hilt. The teenager shrieked, arching his spine in torment. Roy ripped the blade out with a wet tear, immediately jabbing it into the boy’s right calf and dragging it violently downward, shredding the muscle completely.
The teenager collapsed onto his stomach, utterly helpless, unable to stand, run, or fight.
Roy calmly walked around to the front of the bleeding boy, kneeled beside him, and pressed the edge of his blade to his neck. The teenager looked up, tears mixing with the rain on his face, staring into the eyes of the child who had just systematically dismantled him.
There was no anger in Roy’s eyes. No fear. No adrenaline. Just a cold, dead, merciless indifference.
"Please," the teenager begged, choking on his own tears, holding a trembling, blood-stained hand up in surrender. "Please, I’m sorry... don’t... kill me..."
Roy didn’t listen. With a quick, emotionless swipe of his blade, he cut open the teenager’s throat. The boy convulsed briefly before going completely still. Roy stood over the fresh corpse, letting the rain wash the blood from his hands and his blade, feeling absolutely nothing.
"Hmm. You’re just as ruthless as they say you are." A voice suddenly echoed from the entrance of the alley.
Roy spun around instantly, his knife raised, his body dropping into a flawless defensive crouch. Standing at the entrance of the alley, partially obscured by the shadows and the driving rain, was a tall man. He wore a black trench coat and a dark, wide-brimmed hat that shielded his eyes. He stood completely relaxed, his hands casually resting in his pockets, entirely unaffected by the gruesome scene of carnage before him.
Roy tightened his grip on the knife, analyzing the man’s posture.
"Easy, kid," the man said, his voice smooth, refined, and deeply calm. "I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to help you."
"How can you help me?" Roy demanded, his voice raspy and cold.
"I’ve been hearing whispers about you all over the blocks for some time now," the man said, taking a slow, deliberate, non-threatening step forward. "The skinny kid with a scar. He steals flawlessly. And, he allegedly, kills without hesitation. It seems the rumors were accurate."
The man stopped, offering a faint, approving smile. "Your deeds have finally reached the ears of the local police. They are actively hunting you down as we speak. I must say, I am highly impressed you’ve managed to hide and survive on your own for this long. But you can’t hide forever. They will catch you eventually." He tilted his head slightly. "But I am here to make sure that doesn’t happen. I want to take you to a place far from here, where you will be safe and taken care of."
Roy didn’t lower the knife by a single millimeter. "Why should I trust you? How do I know you’re not working with the cops?" He asked.
The man chuckled softly, the sound carrying effortlessly over the rain. "You are quite sharp for your age. I like that." He tipped his hat up slightly, revealing piercing, intelligent eyes. "To answer your question: if I were a cop, I wouldn’t be standing here offering you protection as bait. I wouldn’t even be talking to you. The primary instinct of the police when facing a child holding a bloody knife over two fresh corpses is to draw their weapons and shoot. But I am not a cop."
The man took another step closer, lowering his voice into a conspiratorial register. "I, instead, represent an organization that specializes in taking in kids like you. Kids who have been abandoned by the world. Kids fueled by rage, trauma, and a desperate, burning desire to survive. You don’t need to be afraid of me."
"I’m not," Roy cut in instantly, his eyes narrowing.
The man smiled, genuinely pleased. "I like your ferocity. You have a fire in you that children your age shouldn’t have. A fire that most grown adults don’t even possess. I want to help you keep that fire burning. I want to take you under my wing and teach you how to be a true fighter. One who attacks not with blind aggression, but with tactical precision."
The man extended an open, black-gloved hand. "Let me take you away from this filth," he said. "I will give you a better life. I am offering you a roof over your head, good food, clean clothes, and most importantly... the guidance to hone your lethal skills and become the warrior you were destined to be."
Roy stared at the outstretched hand. "What do you want in return?"
"All I ask," the man said softly, "is your loyalty."
The man slowly knelt on the wet asphalt, bringing his face down to Roy’s eye level, ignoring the puddles of blood soaking into his coat. He kept his hand extended, waiting for the knife. "What do you say?"
Roy stood in the rain, the blood dripping from his blade. His mind raced, rapidly calculating the odds. He could try to stab this man in the throat and run, but the man moved with a hidden grace that screamed danger. Trying to kill him could end badly for him. And if he did kill him, he would be crushing his only chance at a better life.
On the other hand, he could accept the offer and follow the man. He needed a place to hide anyway. He also needed to become stronger to ensure Henry remained permanently safe in the dark. Safe, and protected.
After a long, tense silence, the survivalist logic won out.
Roy slowly lowered his arm. He flipped the hunting knife around and placed the handle firmly into the man’s gloved palm.
"Good choice," the man smiled, slipping the blade into his coat pocket. He looked at the young boy with genuine intrigue. "What is your name, child?"
Roy hesitated. His name belonged to the boy who played the piano with his mother. The boy who was supposed to be a shield. But that boy had died months ago in an alley. All that was left of him was a ruthless killing machine.
"My mother named me Roy," he finally said, his voice hollow and distant. "But my mother is dead. I no longer wish to bear that name."
The man hummed thoughtfully, standing up to his full height. "I see. How about I give you a new name, then?"
Roy gave a single nod.
The man reached out, gently tilting Roy’s chin up. His eyes traced the jagged line of scarred tissue slicing from the boy’s left eye to his cheek. "How did you get this?" he asked, curious.
"A boy cut me there a few months ago," Roy answered flatly, his eyes completely dead. "But I killed him."
The man let out a low, dark chuckle, thoroughly impressed by the coldness radiating from the child. He let go of Roy’s chin.
"Alright, then," the man proclaimed, his voice echoing with grim finality over the steady beat of the rain. "From now on, you shall be known as Scar."
Roy looked up, letting the new identity settle deep into his bones. It fit perfectly. He nodded, accepting it completely.
The man stretched his hand out once more. "Come along, Scar. You are about to begin a new Chapter of your life."
Scar looked at the hand, then slowly reached out and took it. "Where are we going?" He asked.
The man smiled softly. "Your new home."