The alleyway smelled of wet concrete and grease, the dim glow from a flickering streetlamp casting long shadows across the narrow passage. The two men trudged back to their base, their shoulders slumped in defeat. The cold night air stung their skin, but it was nothing compared to the shame gnawing at them.
"Boss ain't gonna be happy," the man in the hoodie muttered, his hands stuffed deep into his pockets.
"Shut up," the man in the leather jacket snapped, his voice raw with frustration. "We still failed. Let's just get this over with."
They pushed open the battered metal door to the back of an old warehouse, the hinges creaking in protest. Inside, the air was thick with cigarette smoke, the low hum of voices and clinking bottles filling the room. The gang was gathered around a table, a few of them laughing, others checking their phones or exchanging quiet words.
The leader sat at the head of the table, his back to them, his thick, calloused hands wrapped around a glass of whiskey. He didn't need to turn around to make it clear he knew they had arrived.
"Well?" His voice cut through the chatter, low and dangerous.
The two men approached, and the leader's gaze slid to them, waiting for an explanation. The leather-jacketed man stepped forward, swallowing hard before speaking.
"We… we couldn't get her," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "She wasn't alone."
The leader's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"
The man in the leather jacket hesitated, running a hand through his hair. "There was this guy. He wasn't just some random guy, though. He had this... energy. I don't know. I got close, but the way he looked at me, the way it felt—"
"Spit it out!" The leader's voice rose sharply, a slap of authority that made the room go silent.
"He... he made me feel like I couldn't move," the leather-jacketed man continued, his hands shaking as he spoke. "Like something was pressing on me. I've never felt anything like it before."
The leader stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the concrete floor with a loud screech. "You let a guy stop you?" He crossed the room in two long strides, grabbing the leather-jacketed man by the collar and lifting him off the ground. "You let him make you feel like that? Do you have any idea what I'm gonna do to you for that?"
The room was silent as everyone watched, some nervous, others quietly amused, but none daring to speak. The man in the hoodie flinched, stepping back as the leader's fury was directed fully at his companion.
The leather-jacketed man struggled, gasping for breath, his face reddening. "I swear, it wasn't just him—"
"Who is he?" the leader snarled, his grip tightening.
"I don't know," the man in the leather jacket spat out, his eyes wild with fear. "He works at the Brooklyn Brew café. That's where I saw him."
The leader's grip loosened, his anger still simmering but controlled now. He pushed the man aside, sending him stumbling to the floor. "You don't know, huh?" His voice was cold, calculating. "We'll deal with him. You think you can just walk into my café and start causing problems?" The leader turned to the rest of the gang. "Get everyone on this. We find him.
Hours later, the streetlights of Brooklyn flickered under the dark sky, casting pools of light on the cracked sidewalks. The Brooklyn Brew café had long since closed for the night, but Alastor was just clocking out, the sound of his footsteps light on the pavement as he exited the back door. His jacket was slung over his arm, his gaze drifting absently toward the street as he walked.
The night felt still, too still, and his senses tingled. He could feel it—the weight of eyes on him, the subtle shift in the air that betrayed the presence of something else. He didn't flinch, didn't quicken his pace. Instead, he walked, deliberately slow, toward an alley where the shadows swallowed him up, leaving no trace of his movements.
The gang was trailing behind him, moving silently, the three men—two from earlier and a third with a scar across his cheek—keeping their distance. They hadn't noticed how easily Alastor had slipped out of sight.
Their footsteps grew louder as they picked up the pace, convinced he hadn't noticed them. But Alastor was ahead of them, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. He could feel the pull of their presence like a thread weaving through the night. It wasn't that he was afraid—no, that wasn't it—but he had no desire for this confrontation.
His steps carried him further down the alleyway, deeper into the maze of Brooklyn's winding streets. There were no prying eyes here, no one to witness what was about to unfold.
The men followed, closer now, their breaths hitching in excitement. They thought they had him.
Alastor, however, didn't stop. His body tensed, his senses honed to every movement. As he turned the corner, he paused, waiting for them to close the gap, to think they had him cornered.
And when they did, when they were just a few paces behind him, Alastor's lips barely twitched upward, a small, almost imperceptible smirk forming.
The trap, as always, was set.
The men closed in on Alastor, their footsteps echoing off the damp concrete walls of the alley. The air felt thick, heavy with the anticipation of the inevitable confrontation. But Alastor, with a calmness that contrasted sharply with the men's aggression, kept his back to them, a slight smile playing at the corners of his lips.
The leader's voice broke the silence. "You think you can walk away from us? We've got business to settle."
Alastor didn't respond. Instead, he kept walking, his pace slow, deliberate. The gang's footsteps quickened as they grew impatient, their leader growling under his breath.
"Make a move, then," the leader spat.
The first man lunged, his fist cutting through the air toward Alastor's back. But just before the punch could land, Alastor spun on his heel, his body moving with a fluid grace that seemed unnatural. However, his movements were slightly slower than usual, a telltale sign of the years catching up with him. His muscles protested the sudden motion, and for a moment, he faltered, his breath coming a bit harder than he intended. Still, he sidestepped the punch effortlessly, the gang member stumbling past him. In that split second, Alastor's hand shot out, catching the man by the shoulder and giving him a light nudge.
The shove wasn't much, but it was enough.
The man crashed into the one behind him, knocking them both to the ground in a heap of tangled limbs and curses. They scrambled to regain their footing, angry and humiliated.
The leader's eyes widened in disbelief. "What the hell was that?"
Alastor's eyes flicked toward them, but his expression remained passive. He took a half-step back, just enough to put some distance between himself and the fallen men. His right hand trembled slightly as he adjusted his stance, a fleeting sign of his aging body struggling to keep up with his youthful appearance.
"You're wasting your time," he muttered, his voice calm but carrying a quiet menace. "You can't touch me."
But the leader was undeterred. With a growl of frustration, he motioned for the remaining gang members to charge, eager to prove that they weren't going to back down. They moved in all at once, fists raised and teeth bared.
Alastor didn't flinch.
Instead, he relied on his instincts—his senses already keenly aware of their movements. As the first man swung a wide arc with a crowbar, Alastor ducked, the weapon narrowly missing his head. His hand shot out in the same fluid motion, gently guiding the man's arm away, causing the crowbar to miss entirely and strike the leg of one of the other gang members behind him.
The second gang member howled in pain, stumbling backward as the first man tried to steady his weapon. They exchanged a brief, confused glance before turning back to Alastor, rage now burning in their eyes.
"Get him! Now!" the leader barked.
But Alastor was always one step ahead. As the men advanced again, Alastor remained still, his posture relaxed. As one of them lunged toward him, a knife gleaming in his hand, Alastor raised a single hand, not to strike, but to redirect. With a slight shift of his palm, he guided the man's trajectory, making him overshoot his target and slam face-first into the brick wall.
The leader's frustration turned to rage. "You're dead, you bastard!" he screamed, pulling out a gun and aiming it directly at Alastor's chest.
But Alastor had already anticipated the move. As the leader fired, Alastor moved with the precision of someone who had seen the bullet's path before it was even launched. He dodged just enough to avoid being hit, the bullet missing him by mere inches.
In a split second, the bullet ricocheted off the nearby trash can, striking one of the men in the leg. The man let out a guttural scream, crumpling to the ground. The others froze, their eyes wide in shock, unable to believe what had just happened.
Alastor didn't look back, but his lips curled upward ever so slightly. His hand remained casually at his side as the remaining gang members stumbled, unsure of how to approach him now.
"You're all too predictable," Alastor murmured, not facing them but keeping his senses sharp, watching their every move. "You don't realize it yet, but you're already out of your depth."
They were cornered now, scrambling for answers in their minds. The leader, seeing that his men were now injured and disoriented, his finger twitching on the trigger.
Alastor shifted his weight, stepping back, his movements calm, but slower than before, the weight of his years clearly taking a toll. He knew he didn't need to engage physically. He's already made his point.
"Go home," he said softly, his voice low, almost apologetic, but laced with something shaper. "Before you make it worse for yourselves."
The gang members glanced at each other, the tension in the air thick and charged. The leader's grip tightened around the gun, his eyes narrowing as if calculating his next move. But then, seeing the state of his injured men, his anger simmering down to a cold fury, he took a step back.
"You're lucky," the leader growled, his voice right with restrained fury. "But this isn't over."
Alastor didn't respond. He didn't need to. Instead, he simply turned, disappearing into the darkness of the alley, his figure swallowed by the night.
The gang members stood frozen, bruised and battered. The sting of humiliation lingering in the air like the faint echo of a fight they never had a chance to win.