Elian awoke to the taste of blood and the chill of concrete beneath his cheek. The world was all shadow and ache, the air thick with rot and city filth. Somewhere above, neon flickered behind rain-smeared glass, painting the alley in sickly blue and red. His body was small, thin — not the one he remembered. Not the one that had died.
He lay there, unmoving, for a long time. Rain tapped a slow rhythm on the dumpster overhead. Somewhere, a siren wailed, distant and uncaring. Elian forced his eyes open, squinting against the sting. His hands were raw, knuckles split. His ribs ached with every shallow breath.
He remembered dying. He remembered the pain — the sudden, sharp end. And then… nothing. Until now.
He rolled onto his back, staring up at the thin slice of sky between the buildings. The city pressed in on all sides: Hell's Kitchen, if the signs and the stink were any clue. He knew this place, or at least he knew of it. Marvel Comics/Movies. A world of heroes and villains, of people who mattered.
He was not one of them. Not yet.
A sound — footsteps, soft and careful — echoed down the alley. Elian tensed, every muscle coiling. He pressed himself against the wall, heart hammering. He was small, weak. He remembered that much. The Hand had made sure of it.
The Hand. The memory was a wound, raw and fresh. Training in darkness. Voices like knives. The taste of fear, constant and choking. He had not been strong enough. Not ruthless enough. They had discarded him, thrown him away like trash.
He was supposed to be dead.
But he wasn't. Not anymore.
The footsteps paused. A shadow loomed at the mouth of the alley — tall, broad-shouldered, wrapped in a coat too thin for the weather. Elian held his breath, shrinking into himself. The man's face was lost in shadow, but his eyes were sharp, scanning the gloom.
"Hey," the man called, voice rough. "You alive?"
Elian said nothing. He watched, waiting. The man stepped closer, boots crunching on broken glass.
"Kid?" He crouched, peering into the darkness. "You hurt?"
Elian's mind raced. He needed to move. To hide. But his body was slow, sluggish with hunger and pain.
The man sighed, reaching into his pocket. "Here," he said, tossing something onto the ground. A protein bar, battered and half-crushed. "Eat. I'll be back."
He left as suddenly as he'd come, footsteps fading into the night. Elian stared at the bar, suspicion warring with hunger. His stomach twisted, sharp and empty. He waited, counting heartbeats, then snatched the food and tore it open with trembling hands.
It tasted like dust and hope.
He ate quickly, eyes darting to every shadow. The city was alive with danger — he could feel it, a low hum beneath his skin. He needed to move. To find shelter. To survive.
He pushed himself to his feet, swaying. His clothes were thin, torn. His shoes pinched. He looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers. They were not his hands. Not the ones he remembered.
He was someone else now. Someone new.
He slipped from the alley, moving with practiced caution. He kept to the shadows, head down. The city was a maze of alleys and broken dreams. He moved by instinct, guided by memories that were not his own.
He found a doorway, half-hidden behind a stack of crates. He squeezed inside, curling up against the cold. He listened to the city breathe — the distant roar of traffic, the muffled shouts, the ever-present threat of violence.
He closed his eyes, letting the darkness take him.
He woke to pain. His back burned, a deep, pulsing ache. He reached behind him, fingers brushing the base of his spine. There was something there — a raised mark, rough and unfamiliar. He pressed harder, gritting his teeth.
A memory flickered — hands gripping his shoulders, voices chanting in a language he didn't know. The mark was old, older than him. Older than this body.
He shivered, pulling his knees to his chest. The city was waking up, the sounds growing louder, harsher. He needed to move. To find food. To stay hidden.
He slipped back into the streets, blending with the other shadows. He watched, he listened. He learned.
He was good at that.
Days passed in a blur of hunger and cold. Elian scavenged what he could — scraps from dumpsters, coins from gutters. He learned the rhythms of the city, the places to avoid, the people to fear.
He watched the gangs, the dealers, the desperate. He saw the Hand's men, moving through the shadows, searching. Always searching.
He kept his head down, moving carefully. He was small, forgettable. Invisible.
But he was watching. Always watching.
He learned the city's secrets — the hidden doors, the safe alleys, the places where the desperate gathered. He listened to their stories, piecing together the world around him.
He was not the only one running. Not the only one hunted.
He met others — kids like him, lost and broken. Some trusted him. Most didn't. Trust was a luxury in Hell's Kitchen.
He kept his secrets close. The mark on his spine. The memories that weren't his. The power he could feel, deep inside, waiting.
He didn't know what it was. Not yet.
But he would.
One night, as the city drowned beneath a storm, Elian found himself cornered. Three men, faces hidden behind scarves, knives glinting in the rain.
He backed away, heart pounding. He was small, weak. He remembered that. But he was also something else.
The first man lunged, knife flashing. Elian dodged, barely. The blade grazed his arm, hot and sharp. He stumbled, falling hard.
The second man kicked him, hard. Pain exploded in his ribs. Elian gasped, curling into a ball.
He remembered the training. The lessons in pain. The Hand had taught him that much.
He let the pain wash over him, let it become something else. He focused, breathing slow, steady. He watched the men, their movements — sloppy, overconfident.
He waited.
The third man grabbed him, hauling him to his feet. Elian twisted, driving his elbow into the man's gut. The man grunted, doubling over.
Elian ran.
He didn't look back.
He ran until his lungs burned, until his legs gave out. He collapsed in an alley, gasping for breath.
He was alive.
He lay there, staring up at the rain. He felt something shift inside him — a new understanding, a new piece of himself.
He could survive this. He would survive this.
He closed his eyes, letting the storm wash him clean.
He spent the next day nursing his wounds, hidden beneath a fire escape. He replayed the fight in his mind, analyzing every move, every mistake.
He needed to be better. Stronger. Smarter.
He watched the people around him — the way they moved, the way they fought. He mimicked them, practicing in secret. He learned quickly, faster than he should.
He felt something growing inside him — a power, subtle and strange. He couldn't name it, not yet. But it was there, waiting.
He was changing.
A week passed. Elian grew stronger, sharper. He learned to move without being seen, to fight without being caught. He learned to steal, to lie, to survive.
He watched the Hand's men, always searching. He stayed one step ahead, always moving.
He met a girl, small and fierce, with eyes like broken glass. She watched him with suspicion, but didn't turn him away.
They shared what little they had — food, warmth, stories. She told him her name was Mina. She didn't ask for his.
Trust was still a luxury. But it was something.
They watched each other's backs, silent and wary. They survived.
One night, as they huddled together beneath a battered tarp, Mina spoke.
"You're not like the others," she said, voice soft. "You watch. You learn."
Elian said nothing.
She looked at him, eyes sharp. "What are you running from?"
He hesitated, then shrugged. "Everyone."
She nodded, understanding. "Me too."
They sat in silence, listening to the city breathe.
Elian felt the mark on his spine, burning. He felt the power inside him, growing.
He didn't know what he was becoming. Not yet.
But he would.