Seraphel stumbled through the dimly lit pub, his midnight black hair hanging in greasy strands around his face. The smell of stale ale and sweat filled the air, a thick fog of desperation clinging to the wooden beams above. His silver-white eyes, normally sharp and alert, were now bleary and unfocused, a stark contrast to their usual cold gleam. He had spent the last few hours drowning his sorrows, hoping to numb the pain that never seemed to leave him. The whispers of the patrons grew louder as he approached the bar, a cacophony of curiosity and fear.
"Another round," he slurred, slamming a handful of coins onto the counter. The bartender eyed him warily, the hint of darkness in Seraphel's pupils unsettling. The coins clinked against the scarred wood, the sound echoing through the room. The conversations hushed momentarily before resuming in hushed tones.
With a sigh, the bartender shuffled over, a pitiful comment slipping from his lips. "Looks like you've had enough to forget your troubles for a night, stranger." He filled the mug to the brim with ale, the froth spilling over onto his rough hands. His gaze was sympathetic, but his tone held a hint of wariness.
Seraphel took the mug, the warmth seeping through his calloused grip. He tipped it back, the amber liquid cascading down his throat, barely tasting the bitterness.
Suddenly, a soft hand touched his arm, sending a jolt through his weary body. He turned to see a prostitute standing before him, her eyes a vibrant emerald that seemed to glow in the shadows. Her smile was painted on, a stark contrast to the bruises marring her otherwise porcelain skin.
"How about some company, love?" she whispered, her voice a siren's call amidst the pub's cacophony. "I'll make your troubles disappear for a while." Her offer was as enticing as it was desperate, a brief escape from his despair.
With a nod, Seraphel agreed and followed her into the back alley of the pub. The moon cast a feeble glow upon the cobblestones. The alley was a stark contrast to the chaos inside, the silence almost deafening. The stench of rotting garbage and the distant sound of a whimpering animal were the only companions to their shuffling steps.
The prostitute's grip grew tighter as they approached a shadowy corner that seemed to swallow all light. She stopped, her smile fading into a tense line. "Here we are," she said, her voice barely above a murmur. "This is where I make my clients feel alive again."
Seraphel leaned against the cold, damp wall, the stones digging into his back. As he did, he noticed the subtle shift in her posture. She had moved slightly away from him, her eyes flickering to the alley's entrance, then back to him.
"I'm really sorry," she whispered, her voice shaking with genuine fear. "But they said they'd hurt me if I didn't..."
Before she could finish her sentence, the alley's stillness was shattered by the emergence of several figures from the shadows. Their faces were obscured by ragged hoods, but the glint of their knives in the moonlight was unmistakable.
Seraphel's eyes narrowed, the silver veil in his pupils thickening. He recognized the situation for what it was - a trap.
Still not quite sane from the alcohol, Seraphel said, "Ah... I see. So typical of the filth of society... Luring a drunken man into a trap... To take everything from him..."
He raised his hand, unsteadily pointing a finger at each figure as he began to count out loud. "One... Two... Three... Four... Five..." His voice grew clearer and more sober with each number, the irony in his tone sharper than the steel of the blades they wielded.
The leader of the hooded figures stepped forward, a sneer playing on his lips. "You're a long way from the protection of the academy, aren't you, freak?" He spat the last word with relish, his knife glinting menacingly.
The words hit Seraphel like a bolt of lightning, sobering him instantly. His heart raced, the veil of darkness in his eyes swirling like a maelstrom. He could feel the echoes of the painful rituals that had made him a Hunter and the screams of his former self.
One of the hooded men, smaller in stature than the others, took a step backward, his eyes widening. "You think he's a real one?" he asked the leader, his voice cracking like dry twigs underfoot.
The leader sneered. "Look at his eyes. Of course he is. But don't let that fool you. He's half-dead with drink. He won't be able to do anything."
Seraphel's hand shot out faster than a viper's strike, grabbing the wrist of the closest attacker. His grip was ironclad, the man's bones audibly cracking as Seraphel yanked him forward, using the momentum to pull him off balance. In one fluid motion, Seraphel twisted the man's arm, forcing the knife to plunge into the neck of the one beside him. Blood spurted in an arc, painting the alley with a crimson hue.
The remaining thugs froze, their smiles replaced with a sudden understanding of the predator they faced. The emerald-eyed woman gasped, her hand flying to her mouth in horror. The leader took a cautious step back, his eyes flicking from the lifeless body to the unyielding gaze of the Hunter.
"I'm not here to harm anyone," Seraphel said, his voice low and dangerous. "But I will not be trifled with. Now, leave."
The leader's eyes narrowed, but he sensed the power radiating from the man before him. He signaled to his remaining men, and they began to back away, their retreat a silent acknowledgment of defeat.
"You're one of the lucky ones," Seraphel said to the woman, his voice cold but not unkind. "Now go, before I change my mind."
With trembling legs, she nodded and slipped away into the shadows, leaving the stench of fear in her wake.
When Seraphel realized what he had done, he sank to his knees, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The sight of the crimson pool spreading among the fallen men brought a flood of memories - every kill of his past missions, every cry of the innocents, the battles he fought in the name of justice. His silver-white eyes grew wild, the veil of darkness pulsing like a living thing, threatening to swallow him whole.
The alley was eerily quiet now, the only sound the distant echo of the pub's patrons. The smell of blood mingled with the stench of garbage, creating a nauseating cocktail that filled his nostrils. He looked down at his hand, the one that had so easily snuffed out a life, and felt a tremble run through his body.
Forcing himself to stand, he stepped over the bodies, the sticky warmth of blood seeping into his boots. The cold night air slapped him in the face, a cruel reminder of the sobering reality. He staggered out of the alley, the cobblestone streets seeming to sway beneath his feet. The fog in his mind began to lift, revealing the stark clarity of his situation.
He needed to find a place to rest, to cleanse himself of the stench of the alley and the deed he had just committed. He set off in search of an inn, his senses on high alert.
A few minutes later, he arrived at a small, dimly lit inn nestled between two taller, more imposing buildings. The wooden sign above the door creaked in the gentle breeze, its faded paint barely visible in the moon's weak light. The name "Serenity's Rest" swung back and forth.
Pushing the door open, he stepped into the warm embrace of the inn. The smell of roasting meat and the crackle of a fireplace greeted him, a stark contrast to the cold, metallic scent of blood that clung to him like a second skin.
The innkeeper, a burly man with a thick beard and a missing eye, looked up from his ledger. His gaze took in the state of Seraphel's attire, the tension in his shoulders, and the smell of ale that lingered about him. "A room for the night?" he rumbled.
Seraphel nodded, his hand sliding a few more coins across the counter. "And a bath," he added, his voice tight.
The innkeeper's one good eye took in the bloodstained fabric of his cloak, then he nodded. "You'll find it at the top of the stairs, last door on the left."
The stairs groaned under his weight as he climbed, each step a battle against his own weariness and the weight of his recent actions. The room was simple, a single bed with a threadbare blanket, a wooden chair by the window, and a washbasin in the corner. The window was open slightly, allowing a whisper of the night's chill to dance with the flickering candle flame.
Seraphel peeled off his blood-soaked cloak, dropping it to the floor with a wet thud. His eyes fell on the reflection in the small mirror above the basin - a haggard man with silver-white eyes that gleamed like polished steel. He dipped his hands into the cold water, watching the blood swirl down the drain. The water grew a darker shade of crimson, matching the guilt that stained his soul.
"I'm a monster," he murmured to himself, his voice barely a whisper. "A creation of the academy, meant to protect and yet I feel nothing but contempt for what I am." His eyes searched the mirror, looking for the human he once was, but all he found was the cold, detached gaze of a killer.
....