Rain poured relentlessly over the darkened alleyway, masking the sound of fists colliding with flesh. Johnny Lay crumpled to the ground, surrounded by a group of six men. Their shadows danced in the dim light of a flickering street lamp, their faces twisted with anger and disdain.
The rain was cold, biting into Johnny's skin through his threadbare jacket. It mingled with the sweat and blood dripping from his face, the metallic taste of it filling his mouth. He hadn't meant to end up here. He had been wandering aimlessly, lost in his own thoughts, when he stumbled into the alley.
At first, it seemed empty, just another stretch of shadowy gloom, but then he saw them-a group of men huddled around crates filled with suspicious-looking packages, whispering in hushed tones. The low murmur of their voices blended with the patter of rain.
"What the hell is this guy doing here?" one of them barked, stepping forward, his voice cutting through the downpour.
Johnny ignored them, his mind too fogged with apathy to register their hostility. He didn't stop, didn't change direction, just kept walking as if they didn't exist. But they didn't take kindly to his indifference. The group closed in on him like a pack of wolves, the sound of their footsteps barely audible over the rain.
Now he lay on the ground, his body aching and bruised. His breath came in shallow gasps as he curled in on himself, trying to shield his ribs from the relentless kicks.
"You got a death wish wandering into our business?" one of the thugs sneered, delivering a particularly vicious kick to Johnny's side. Pain exploded through his ribs, sharp and blinding.
"Think you can just walk right into anywhere you want?" another added, his voice laced with venom.
Johnny didn't fight back. He didn't even flinch anymore. The pain was almost comforting, a distraction from the storm of hopelessness raging inside of him. Each blow felt like confirmation that he was still alive, though he wished otherwise.
"Why bother?" he muttered under his breath, the words barely audible over the relentless downpour.
One of the men grabbed him by the collar, hauling him up and forcing him to look into his eyes. Rain dripped from the thug's unshaven chin, and his breath smelled of alcohol and anger. "What was that?"
Johnny's gaze drifted to the ground, unfocused and distant. He didn't care enough to answer.
The thug raised his fist, his knuckles cracked and raw. "Today's gonna be your last, you bastard!" His voice echoed in the narrow alley, a vicious promise carried on the wind.
Before the punch landed, a voice sliced through the rain like a blade.
"That's enough."
The group froze, turning toward the source of the voice.
A tall figure stepped into the alley, his black-clad form blending with the shadows. His face was obscured by a smooth, featureless mask that reflected the dim light like a dark mirror. His cloak billowed slightly in the breeze, the rain sliding off its surface in rivulets.
The sight of him sent an unnerving chill through the thugs. Even the air around him seemed heavier, charged with an intangible menace.
"Who the hell are you?" one of the thugs demanded, his voice faltering.
The masked man didn't answer. His presence alone was enough to command attention, his silence more unsettling than any threat. Finally, he spoke, his voice calm and deep, carrying a weight that made the words feel absolute. "Six against one. Cowards."
The leader of the group sneered, though his bravado rang hollow. "Yeah? And what are you gonna do about it, freak?"
The masked man tilted his head slightly, as if considering the question. Then, without warning, he moved.
What followed was a symphony of chaos. The masked man was a blur, his movements precise and deadly. A punch to the throat silenced one thug instantly, the man collapsing to the ground clutching his neck. A spinning kick sent another flying into the wall, the impact echoing through the alley.
The remaining men rushed him, their desperation evident, but it was like trying to fight a ghost. He weaved through them effortlessly, his strikes landing with brutal efficiency. Bones cracked, grunts of pain filled the air, and within moments, the fight was over.
Johnny watched from the ground, too stunned to process what was happening. The rain continued to fall, washing away the blood and grime as if trying to cleanse the scene.
When the last thug hit the ground, groaning in pain, the masked man turned to Johnny. He crouched down, his featureless mask mere inches from Johnny's battered face.
"You didn't even try to fight back," the masked man said, his tone quieter now but no less intense.
Johnny coughed, wincing as he tried to sit up. Pain radiated through his body, but it was nothing compared to the emptiness in his chest. "What's the point?" he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.
The masked man regarded him in silence, the raindrops sliding down his mask like tears. Johnny's eyes were as dead as a corpse's, and his words carried no weight, no conviction.
"If you're so eager to throw your life away," the masked man said, his voice sharper now, "why not do it for something greater? At least make it count."
Johnny hesitated, the words cutting through the fog in his mind like a shard of glass.
Suddenly, a distant explosion rocked the alley, lighting up the night sky with an orange glow. The ground trembled beneath them, the sound reverberating like a distant thunderclap.
Johnny looked toward the source, his face etched with confusion and fear. But the masked man didn't react, his posture calm and unshaken. Slowly, he turned away, his cloak fluttering slightly in the wind as he began to leave.
"Wait," Johnny called, his voice weak but resolute.
The masked man paused, his head tilting slightly as if considering whether to respond.
Johnny struggled to his feet, his body trembling but his voice steady. "If I'm going to die... might as well be for something big, right?"
The masked man didn't reply, but something in his stance shifted. With a slight nod, he continued walking toward the end of the alley.
Johnny followed him, his steps unsteady but purposeful. At the alley's edge, two men clad in similar attire and masks stood waiting beside a horse-drawn wagon. The rain glistened off their dark cloaks, their silent presence adding to the air of mystery.
"It is done," one of them said, his voice as cold and steady as the night.
The masked man nodded before turning back to Johnny. His voice was steady but deep, carrying an air of finality. "Welcome to the Phantoms."
Johnny's heart raced as the group disappeared into the night, leaving the alley-and his old life-behind. For the first time in years, something stirred within him: fear, curiosity, and maybe, just maybe, hope.