"There! That guy in the gray top!"
One of the men chasing him shouted, urgency in his voice.
Suffocating that drunk man had been a mistake—just a moment of panic that had gone wrong. Now, Haoran ran through the crowded streets of the rundown market, the air filled with the smell of spices, frying dumplings, and garbage. Old buildings, their paint peeling and walls crumbling, towered over him, casting long shadows on the uneven pavement. The sun beat down hard, and sweat dripped from his brow as he pushed past startled vendors, each step a desperate bid for escape.
Haoran could hear the shouts behind him, but he didn't dare look back. This wasn't the first time he'd been in trouble, but today had turned chaotic far too quickly. As he darted past a mirror shop, he caught a glimpse of the men following him, a trio of rough-looking men.
This will pass. It always does, Haoran thought, his heart racing with every footfall.
Haoran weaved through the crowd, slipping past a woman selling fried dough and a man haggling over vegetables. Fatigue weighed on him, and his stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn't eaten breakfast. But he couldn't slow down, not now.
Suddenly, Haoran found himself face-to-face with a tall brick wall, rough and unyielding. Panic surged through him. He skidded to a halt and glanced back. The men were getting closer, their footsteps echoing in the narrow alley.
He turned back to the wall, searching for a way over it. Then he caught a whiff of smoke, sharp and pungent, mixing with the market smells. His heart raced, was there a fire nearby?
The shouts grew louder, and he felt heat rising in his chest. He pressed himself against the wall, trying to calm his breath.
Think, think!
With no time to waste, he scanned the area. To his right, he spotted an old wooden crate leaning against the wall, hidden behind some weeds. He rushed to it, kicked it free, and scrambled up, the rough wood biting into his palms. He reached for the top of the wall, fingers searching for a grip.
As he pulled himself up, he heard the men round the corner, their voices shouting. He managed to hoist himself over just as they skidded to a stop at the wall.
Breathless, he landed in a narrow alley, the smoke growing thicker. He could hear their frustrated curses behind him, but he didn't stop to listen. He turned and ran, the strong smell of smoke pushing him forward. He had to keep moving; the city was a maze, and he would find a way out.
I've survived worse, he reminded himself as he sprinted into the unknown, adrenaline driving him deeper into the busy streets.
——————-
"I told you not to do it in front of innocent people," Haoran muttered, his tone harsh. "You shouldn't have done that to that guy."
The words weren't for anyone else. He was talking to himself, or more accurately, to the thing inside him. Smoke puffed out of his nostrils, curling lazily in the cold air.
The voice answered from deep inside him, sharp and teasing. "Oh, come on. You let me. You always let me. Now stop whining and help me out. I got hit back there."
Haoran touched his lower back, wincing. The spot throbbed where the metal box had slammed into him. His lips tightened. "Serves you right," he muttered under his breath.
Another puff of smoke escaped him, thicker this time. Twice now. That was the sign.
Yes.
He pulled out a cigarette and lit it, the small flame trembling in the breeze. But before he could take a drag, the smoke started moving. Not like smoke should. It swirled around him, faster and faster, until it wasn't just smoke anymore.
Haoran's body stiffened, his eyes losing focus as the smoke poured from his mouth and nose, twisting and stretching into a shape, a ghostly figure, tall and shadowy, tethered to him like a puppet. His friend.
The men chasing him stopped at the edge of the alley, their sneers fading into fear.
He turned to them, his voice no longer just his own. It was layered, deeper, filled with something unnatural.
"You messed with the wrong guy."
And then the smoke lunged forward, dragging his body with it, ready to strike.