Elliot didn't wait.
The moment Babel's gang surrounded him, he struck first.
A sharp kick to the stomach—fast and vicious. The first kid barely had time to react before the impact folded him in half, his breath leaving in a painful wheeze. Elliot didn't stop. He lunged forward, driving a hard right hook straight into the kid's face.
CRACK!
The boy's head snapped to the side, and he crumpled onto the wet ground. One down.
Elliot turned to follow up—
Too slow.
A sharp kick to his face sent him sprawling backward, his skull rattling from the impact. Pain exploded behind his eyes. His back hit the cobblestone, cold rain splashing against his stinging skin.
And then—they swarmed him.
Fists. Feet. Knees. Everywhere.
A boot slammed into his ribs—another into his side. He gasped, curling instinctively, but a hand yanked him up by the collar. A fist slammed into his gut, knocking the wind from his lungs.
Elliot fought back. He twisted, elbowing one in the face, but another grabbed his arm, twisting it behind his back. A knee crashed into his stomach. Hard.
His body lurched. His vision blurred.
He struck blindly, landing a few hits, but it wasn't enough—not against six.
A fist buried into his jaw. His head snapped sideways. Another hand yanked his hair, forcing his face up—only for a brutal punch to slam into his cheek.
He dropped to his knees, rain dripping down his bloodied face. His chest heaved, his fingers twitching, aching to fight back—
But they didn't let him.
His arms were yanked apart—stretched wide.
He struggled, muscles straining, but their grip was ironclad. His body trembled, exhaustion sinking deep into his bones.
He was trapped.
Babel loomed over him, grinning. He wiped his wet hair from his forehead and crouched down, eyes gleaming with amusement.
"Look at you," he sneered. "Pathetic."
Elliot glared up at him, teeth clenched.
Babel's grin widened. "What? You mad? Gonna cry?" He gave a mocking pout before chuckling. "Guess it makes sense. I mean, who the hell would care if some orphan like you cried?"
Elliot's breathing hitched.
Babel's face twisted into something cruel.
"No mom and no dad. Just that washed-up old man taking pity on you. Bet he regrets it now."
Elliot jerked against the hands holding him, but they only tightened their grip.
Babel laughed. "I bet he woke up every morning, looked at your sorry face, and wished he left you in the gutter."
Elliot's nails dug into his palms.
Babel leaned in closer, voice dropping to a whisper. "Oh wait—he probably doesn't even care. I mean, he's already dead, isn't he?"
SLAP.
The hit rattled Elliot's skull. His head snapped sideways, the sting sharp against his bruised cheek.
Laughter.
Another slap. Harder.
Another.
And another.
Babel stepped back, shaking his hand. "Man, this is almost too easy."
A kick to Elliot's chest. His body jerked violently, but the boys held him up. Forced him to endure it.
The rain poured heavier.
Babel cracked his knuckles, rolling his shoulders. "Alright, one last time. Just to make sure you don't forget your place."
He pulled his fist back to strike as hard as he possibly could—
"Babel… that's enough."
The voice was hesitant. Uneasy.
One of the boys—a thin, freckled blond—shifted on his feet. "I mean… we beat him, right? He's not even fighting anymore."
Another kid nodded, swallowing hard. "Yeah, this is kinda messed up. We're just kids, man…"
Babel scowled, glaring at them. "What? You scared?" He scoffed. "Tch. Grow a spine."
The blond hesitated, glancing at Elliot's slumped form. "…I just don't think we should go this far."
Babel rolled his eyes. "Whatever. I'll just finish this myself."
His fist clenched. He pulled back—
Then—everything stopped.
The air shifted.
Thicker. Heavier.
The cold rain turned… warm. The downpour slowed as if resisting gravity itself.
The boys froze.
A pressure—unseen, suffocating—pressed down on them. Like an invisible force, a crushing weight coiling around their chests.
Babel's breath hitched. His fingers trembled. "What the hell…?"
Then—
Elliot's head slowly lifted.
His eyes glowed purple. The rain warped around him, twisting unnaturally as the puddles beneath him began to ripple outward. The air felt alive and the gang staggered backward. Their grips loosened, bodies trembling under the unseen weight pressing them down.
They felt it.
Something was waking up.
A pulse ran through Elliot's veins. His fingers twitched. His breath came slow—steady.
His body… no longer felt weak.
For a split second, Babel saw something in those glowing eyes. Something not human.
Then—
"HEY!"
The world snapped back.
The heavy presence vanished.
A voice—loud, sharp, commanding.
The Baker.
His towering form emerged from the storm, boots splashing through puddles as he stormed toward them. "ENOUGH!"
The gang broke instantly.
The invisible weight lifted, but fear still gripped their bones. They scrambled back, tripping over themselves as they fled into the darkness, not daring to look back.
Only one remained.
Elliot.
His glowing eyes flickered—then faded.
The strength in his body vanished.
His arms dropped limply. His vision swam, the world tilting sideways.
Then—he collapsed.
His body hit the ground, motionless.
The Baker rushed forward, kneeling beside the battered, rain-soaked boy. "Damn it, kid…" His voice was tense, hands hovering for a moment before checking Elliot's pulse. Still alive.
The older man exhaled, glancing at the darkened and bloody street, his expression grim.
"…What the hell just happened?"
The rain kept falling, washing the blood into the streets.
Darkness stretched endlessly in all directions. A vast, empty abyss.
Elliot stood there, weightless, his feet touching nothing, yet he did not fall. A strange stillness surrounded him—no wind, no sound, just the quiet hum of nothingness pressing against his ears. His breath came slow, shallow.
"Where… am I?" he thought.
he felt a presence, Soft, distant, yet familiar.
Elliot turned.
A girl stood a few feet away, her figure blurred and shifting like mist as if the void itself refused to let him see her. Her lips moved, forming words—gentle, urgent—but no sound reached him.
Elliot strained to hear. His body felt impossibly heavy, as though something unseen weighed him down. His limbs refused to move, his voice refused to rise. He tried to step forward, but the moment his foot lifted—
The void cracked.
A sharp, ringing noise filled his ears, like glass shattering.
The girl took a step toward him, her hand reaching out—
Elliot's eyes snapped open.
A dull, throbbing ache pulsed through his body as he stirred, his vision slow to focus. He was lying on a bed, stiff sheets tangled around his limbs. His ribs ached with every breath, and his face stung.
"Where…?" Elliot was confused as he met a new bed and a new room.
His eyes adjusted to the dim light filtering through a wooden window. The small, simple room smelled faintly of bread and herbs. The familiar scent sent a faint memory flickering through his mind.
The Baker.
The events of the fight crashed into him all at once—Babel's gang, the kicks, the laughter, the rain. The mockery. His body being yanked into that humiliating position. The helplessness. The rage.
And then…
His mind blanked.
Something had happened. Something strange.
But no matter how hard he tried, the memory refused to surface. It was like reaching for smoke—there one moment, gone the next.
Elliot pushed himself up, but his body protested. His muscles ached from the beating, but something deeper weighed him down—something heavier than just bruises.
His chest felt hollow and empty. Not because of the pain. Not because he lost. But because, at the end of it all, he had no one.
No parents, grandfather, or friends. Just himself and even that felt like it wasn't enough.
A sharp knock pulled him from his thoughts.
The door creaked open, and the Baker stepped inside, carrying a bowl of steaming soup. His expression was unreadable, but his gaze lingered on Elliot's bandaged face for a moment before he sighed.
"About time you woke up." He set the bowl on the bedside table, pulling up a chair. "You've been out for three days."
"Three days?" Elliot echoed, his voice laced with surprise.
The Baker studied him for a moment before leaning back in his chair, arms crossed. "You took quite the beating, kid."
Elliot stared at the blanket covering his lap. "Yeah."
A silence stretched between them.
The Baker exhaled through his nose. "You know… I was friends with your grandfather."
Elliot tensed slightly.
"He was a stubborn bastard," the Baker continued, "but he cared about you more than anything. Wouldn't shut up about you." He chuckled, shaking his head. "Always going on about how 'that boy's got more fire in him than he knows.'"
Elliot swallowed. He didn't know what to say to that. The Baker leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "I'm not going pretend I know what you're feeling. But I do know this—if Gerald were here, he wouldn't want you wallowing in self-pity."
Elliot's fingers curled slightly around the blanket.
"Life's not fair," the Baker said simply. "Some people get dealt a bad hand. Some get lucky. But at the end of the day, you can either let it break you, or you can stand up and keep moving."
Elliot bit the inside of his cheek.
Keep moving?
For what?
For who?
The Baker stood with a groan, stretching his back. "Think about it, kid." He turned to leave but paused at the door. "Soup's getting cold. Eat."
Then, he was gone.
Elliot sat there for a long time, staring at the bowl.
He wasn't hungry.
But after a while, he picked up the spoon anyway.
Elliot finished the soup in slow, mechanical motions, his thoughts distant. It was warm—simple but comforting. He hadn't realized how empty his stomach was until now. Once the bowl was empty, he pushed it aside and exhaled quietly. His body still ached, but at least he could move now. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, pausing as his bare feet touched the cool wooden floor. His eyes lingered on the bandages wrapped around his arms and torso.
The Baker had done all this.
Taking care of him. Giving him a place to rest.
A man who owed him nothing.
Elliot took a slow breath, then stood, steadying himself against the bedpost. He walked to the door, his legs stiff but willing.
Downstairs, the scent of fresh bread filled the air. The Baker stood behind the counter, kneading dough with practiced motions. He looked up as Elliot approached, raising an eyebrow.
"Didn't think you'd be up so soon."
Elliot hesitated, shifting on his feet. Then, quietly, he said, "Thank you."
The Baker paused.
"For what?"
"For… letting me stay here. For taking care of me." Elliot glanced down. "You didn't have to."
The Baker wiped his flour-dusted hands on a rag, watching him for a moment. Then, he let out a small huff. "Hmph. You say that like I could've just left you bleeding in the street."
Elliot gave a weak chuckle. "Maybe you should have."
The Baker shot him a sharp look. "Don't say stupid things, kid."
Elliot flinched slightly but nodded.
The Baker sighed, shaking his head. "If you're feeling up to it, go take a walk. Get some air." He gestured toward the door. "Might do you some good."
Elliot hesitated, then nodded again. "Yeah… maybe."
He stepped outside.
The cool afternoon air met him as he walked down the narrow cobblestone streets, his steps slow, deliberate. The town of Ol Traffort was alive, but not in a joyful way.
People moved about with weary eyes and tired expressions.
To his left, an argument spilled out from a small house, voices sharp and angry. A man's frustrated shouting. A woman's tired retorts. A child's muffled sobs behind a wooden door.
To his right, a group of workers sat by a broken cart, their faces lined with exhaustion. They wiped sweat from their brows, murmuring amongst themselves, trying to figure out how to salvage the day's labor.
Further ahead, near the town square, an old beggar sat hunched against a wall, his hand outstretched toward passing strangers. Few even glanced his way. The ones that did keep walking, their own pockets too empty to spare anything.
And then—
A funeral procession.
A small group of mourners walked past, dressed in dull, muted colors. A woman clutched a child's hand tightly, her eyes red from crying. An older man carried a wooden box—small, too small.
Elliot slowed.
The realization settled in his chest like a cold stone. Everyone here was struggling. Each person carrying their own burdens. Their own grief. He wasn't the only one hurting. He wasn't the only one who had lost something. For so long, he had been trapped in his own suffering, drowning in his loneliness. But now, as he stood among the people of Ol Traffort, he saw it—really saw it.
Pain wasn't something unique to him.
It was everywhere.
Yet… they all kept moving.
The beggar still held out his hand, hoping.
The workers still tried to fix their cart, working.
The grieving family still walked forward, mourning.
Life didn't stop for them. So why should it stop for him? A breath he didn't realize he was holding slowly escaped his lips. Something inside him shifted—small, but real.
A flicker of light in the darkness.
Elliot stood still, lost in thought. The weight in his chest wasn't gone, but it didn't feel as suffocating anymore.
Then—laughter.
A group of kids dashed past him, their bare feet splashing through the rain-dampened streets. Their voices were light, full of energy, untouched by the struggles that burdened the adults around them.
One of them—a small girl with tangled curls and bright green eyes—paused mid-run. She turned to look at him, head tilted in curiosity.
"You look sad," she said matter-of-factly.
Elliot blinked, caught off guard.
Before he could respond, she reached into the little cloth bag slung over her shoulder, pulled out a piece of bread, and shoved it into his hands.
"Here!"
Elliot stared down at it, warmth still lingering from being freshly baked. When he looked back up, the girl was already running off, giggling as she rejoined her friends.
"Wait—" he started, but she was gone, disappearing into the winding streets.
Elliot stood there, holding the small gift in his hands.
It wasn't much. Just a piece of bread.
But for some reason… his chest felt lighter.