The temperature outside had plummeted by the time night fully set in. The wind howled against the glass of the penthouse, carrying the damp, biting chill of the late-season rain.
Inside his quiet room, Arlen’s stomach let out another soft growl. Having finished his dry bread earlier, he decided he needed something warm to soothe his empty stomach and help ease the stiffness in his bruised back. He quietly slipped off the wooden slats, careful not to make a sound. He pulled a simple, dark trench coat over his oversized sweater, pocketed his leather money pouch, and slid out of the penthouse, closing the heavy double doors with absolute silence.
A few blocks away, the harsh fluorescent lights of a 24-hour convenience store offered a warm, sterile sanctuary. Arlen stood in front of the instant noodle shelf, his vacant left eye scanning the colorful cups. He chose a simple chicken-flavored noodle cup, paid the cashier with exact change, and filled it with steaming water from the store’s dispenser.
He sat at the narrow counter facing the window, slowly eating the noodles. The hot, salty broth did wonders to warm his chest and temporarily dull the throbbing ache in his lower back. He chewed slowly, staring out at the dark, wet streets, completely content in his own quiet world.
Once finished, he disposed of the cup, gave the cashier a polite nod, and stepped back out into the freezing night air.
Arlen pulled his coat tighter around himself, his footsteps light on the damp pavement. His back was stiff, forcing him to walk with a slightly more rigid, measured stride than usual.
As he rounded a corner onto a quieter, dimly lit street, a figure suddenly darted out from the shadow of a building.
"Please! Oh my god, please help me!"
Arlen stopped. Standing in front of him was a petite young woman. She was dressed in incredibly skimpy attire—a tight, low-cut top and a very short skirt that offered absolutely no protection against the biting wind. She was shivering violently, her eyes wide with a frantic, desperate panic.
Arlen blinked slowly, his thick bangs shifting slightly as he looked her up and down. His literal mind immediately registered her lack of clothing.
"You are not wearing many clothes," Arlen observed softly, his androgynous voice carrying a calm, deadpan tone. "It is very cold tonight. You should have a coat. Otherwise, you will sneeze."
The woman paused, momentarily taken aback by his breathtaking, ethereal face and his incredibly bizarre, calm response. She quickly shook her head, tears welling in her eyes as she grabbed his sleeve.
"No, you don’t understand! My... my puppy!" she cried, her voice trembling. "He slipped out of his collar and ran down into the alleyway. He’s trapped behind some heavy crates and I can’t move them on my own! Please, he’s crying. I can hear him. You look strong, please help me!"
Arlen processed her words. A puppy was a small dog. It was trapped. Moving crates was a physical task, but helping a shivering person was the polite thing to do.
"Okay," Arlen said, nodding his head obediently. "I will help you look for the dog."
"Thank you! Thank you so much, please, this way!" the woman gasped, quickly turning and leading him down the sidewalk.
She turned sharply into a narrow, secluded alleyway between two towering brick buildings. The mouth of the alley was pitch black, illuminated only by the distant, flickering amber glow of a streetlamp. The air inside was damp and smelled of wet garbage and rusted metal.
The damp, heavy air of the alleyway seemed to cling to Arlen’s trench coat as they walked deeper into the shadows. The brick walls towered high above, blocking out what little light the city streets offered.
Suddenly, the woman stopped.
Her violent shivering ceased instantly. She turned back to face Arlen, her frantic, tearful expression melting away into a cold, predatory smirk. At the same time, the heavy, deliberate sound of footsteps echoed from the darkness behind her.
Two tall men, clad in matching black suits, stepped out from the deep shadows, effectively blocking the exit of the narrow alleyway. One was a broad, bald man wearing dark sunglasses despite the pitch-black night. The other was an American with his blonde hair slicked back, chewing lazily on a toothpick.
With a metallic *clink*, the bald man slid a pair of heavy brass knuckles over his thick fingers. Beside him, the American flicked his wrist, the blade of a butterfly knife flashing in the dim light as it clicked open with practiced, lethal speed.
The petite woman reached into her pocket. When she pulled her hand out, a thin, glinting steel thread stretched taut between her fingers, humming with tension.
Arlen stood perfectly still in the center of the alleyway. His left eye blinked slowly, looking at the three of them, then down at the weapons, and finally back to the woman’s face. He didn’t look afraid. He didn’t look shocked. His mind simply processed the visual information.
*’No puppy,’* Arlen realized, his literal brain adjusting to the new situation. *’And they have metal things.’*
Because his lower back was still throbbing with a dull, plum-colored ache, he really did not want to engage in any physical activity. Fighting would make his back hurt more, and the pharmacist had explicitly told him to rest.
Concluding that these people were simply in need of financial assistance, Arlen reached into his trench coat pocket with slow, non-threatening movements. He pulled out his simple, worn leather money pouch.
He held it out toward the woman, offering it with both hands, his long gray sleeves covering his wrists.
"I do not have a puppy," Arlen said, his soft, androgynous voice echoing quietly in the damp alley. "But I have this. There are three hundred and fifty pesos inside. There are also some coins. You may have it if you are hungry."
The three of them did not answer. The atmosphere in the damp alleyway instantly shifted, turning freezing and heavy as a palpable, suffocating wave of killing intent locked onto Arlen.
Arlen’s body, usually loose and docile, instinctively tensed. The vacant, glassy look in his left eye didn’t change, but his pupils dilated slightly as his nervous system registered the immediate, lethal threat. They didn’t want his money. They wanted his life.
Before the woman could raise her hands to snap the weaponized steel thread around his neck, Arlen’s fingers tightened around the leather money pouch. The heavy metal coins inside shifted, forming a solid, compact weight.
With a swift, effortless flick of his wrist, Arlen flung the pouch forward.
*Crack.*
The heavy leather bag, packed tight with heavy peso coins, struck the woman squarely in the center of her forehead. The impact was loud and solid. The woman let out a sharp, choked gasp, her eyes rolling back slightly as she staggered backward, her weaponized thread slipping from her fingers as she clutched her head in dizzy, disoriented agony.
"What the—?!" the American hissed. He lunged forward, the butterfly knife slicing through the dark in a lethal, horizontal arc aimed directly at Arlen’s throat.
Despite the sudden, white-hot flash of pain that flared across his bruised lower back, Arlen didn’t panic. He simply swayed his torso backward, his movements fluid and precise. The silver blade whistled past his chin, missing his neck by a mere fraction of an inch, cutting nothing but the cool night air.
Before the American could pull the knife back for a second strike, Arlen stepped directly into his guard. He reached out with his long, gray-sleeved arms, his fingers locking onto the lapels of the American’s black suit jacket with a deceptively firm grip.
At that exact moment, the bald man charged, his massive arm drawing back as he threw a devastating, skull-crushing haymaker, the heavy brass knuckles gleaming in the dark.
Arlen’s back screamed in protest as he twisted his hips. Using the American’s own forward momentum against him, Arlen dragged the blonde man sideways, pivoting him directly into the path of the incoming blow.
*Thud-crack.*
The bald man’s brass knuckles connected violently with the American’s ribs. A sickening crunch of bone echoed through the alley as the American let out a wet, strangled groan, his eyes widening in shock as his own partner’s fist shattered his side. He instantly went limp, his butterfly knife clattering onto the wet pavement as Arlen used him as a perfect, heavy shield.
With the American collapsing against him, Arlen let go of the man’s lapels, allowing him to slide limply onto the wet pavement.
The bald man stared down at his groaning partner in momentary shock, his brass-knuckled fist still raised. "You idiot!" he grunted, his face contorting with rage as he turned his furious gaze back to Arlen.
Arlen stood perfectly still, his left eye blinking slowly. He felt a sharp, burning throb in his lower back—a painful reminder of the marble table. *’The pharmacist said no heavy lifting,’* he recalled. Dragging the grown man had definitely violated that rule, and his muscles were already tightening in protest.