[17 minutes 56 secs ago]
[ 55 secs]
[54 secs]
[53 secs]
The old man had seen them.
Not right away, but soon enough.
When Killa had left the gym, the city had swallowed him up quickly, his small frame disappearing into the winding streets.
But then, just as he was about to retreat inside, he noticed them.
The figures lurking in the alleys. Moving too deliberately. Staying just far enough behind Killa that he wouldn't notice right away.
The old man had seen this before.
Predators hunting a lone target.
A fight coming.
And yet—
He hadn't intervened.
Not immediately.
Curiosity tugged at him, something deep in his bones urging him to see.
So he followed.
From a distance, keeping to the shadows, his old steps light on the pavement. The city had aged him, but some habits never faded.
He watched as Killa walked, unaware at first. Then—
That moment.
The second Killa felt it.
The subtle shift in his stride. The way his shoulders stiffened before relaxing again. The glance over his shoulder, not panicked, but measured.
The boy had sensed them.
The old man's heart quickened.
He continued to follow, his pulse steady but his veins thrumming with something long forgotten.
When Killa finally turned onto an emptier street, when the boys made their move, the old man gritted his teeth.
He should step in.
Stop it before it started.
But then—
Guissepe's words.
"Almost all his opponents, sometimes twice the size of him, end up bleeding. Broken noses, split lips.
And the way he moves… it's not normal, old man. It's not just instinct. It's like he was made for this."
The old man clenched his fists.
So he waited.
And watched.
Four against one.
The odds weren't just bad. They were impossible.
At least, they should've been.
Then Killa locked in.
And the old man's breath caught.
It was subtle. A shift so natural that it took a trained eye to recognize it.
Killa's shoulders dropped—not in defeat, but in readiness. His stance loosened, his weight balanced.
No tension. No panic.
Just a quiet, eerie stillness.
The old man's pulse pounded in his ears.
"He shouldn't have learnt any sort of discipline before".
Guissepe's words rang again but the man shook his head to clear those thoughts. "Then how the fuck is he doing this" he mattered as he stared on.
His hands trembled slightly, but not from age.
"No openings," he muttered under his breath, " This kid has no openings" he affirmed again.
His voice was barely a whisper, but it carried the weight of something electric.
Excitement.
His trained eyes roamed over the boy's frame, scanning for a flaw, a mistake, a gap—
But there was nothing.
Killa stood there, composed, waiting.
Not reckless. Not wild.
Measured.
Calculated.
His posture, his face and that slight grin on the kid's face. " Like a devil" the man muttered.
The old man swallowed.
It had been years—decades—since he had seen something like this.
Someone like this.
Then, just as the first boy shifted forward—
"Jason Bourne Killa!"
The voice shattered the moment like glass.
The spell broke.
The boys fled.
And the old man was left standing there, heart hammering, breath unsteady.
He watched as Sister Maria approached Killa.
Watched as the boy's body loosened, the fire in his eyes fading.
Watched as they left, disappearing into the night.
The old man exhaled slowly.
His fingers twitched.
Then—
A voice behind him.
"So?"
The old man turned.
Guissepe stood there, hands in his coat pockets, smirking.
He had been watching, too.
The old man said nothing at first, just let his eyes drift back to Killa's retreating figure.
Guissepe stepped forward, following his gaze. "You see it now, don't you?"
The old man's jaw tightened.
Guissepe chuckled, shaking his head. "That kid… he's something else."
The old man didn't respond.
Didn't need to.
Because in his mind, he was still replaying it.
That stance.
That stillness.
"No openings" he said again. " A bit unrefined though. Would need some work" the man thought as he stood.
For the first time in years, the old man felt his blood run hot.
His fingers curled at his sides.
His past had long since faded into dust.
But tonight—
Tonight, he felt something stir.
Something dangerous.
Something thrilling.
And as he watched Killa disappear into the night, the old man knew—
This wasn't the last time their paths would cross.
Not by a long shot.
...…
The orphanage loomed ahead, its stone walls standing cold and indifferent against the night.
The air smelled of damp earth and old wood, the iron gates groaning softly as Sister Maria pushed them open.
Killa walked a step behind her, hands shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders stiff.
His knuckles ached, but it wasn't the pain that lingered—it was the weight of Maria's presence beside him.
She hadn't said a word since she had broken up the fight.
She didn't have to.
The silence was heavy enough.
They stepped inside, the familiar creak of the wooden floorboards welcoming them like an old ghost.
Dim lights flickered from the hallway sconces, casting long, stretched-out shadows against the walls.
The orphanage was quiet at this hour, the other children tucked away in their rooms, but the air still carried the faint echoes of past laughter, of whispered conversations, of a life Killa had never quite belonged to.
He wanted to keep walking.
To slip away into the comfort of his small, dark room and let the night swallow him whole.
But—
"Killa."
Her voice was soft. Almost fragile.
It made him pause.
Maria was still standing by the door, her hands clasped tightly together in front of her habit.
End of Chapter