The apple crunched under Jack's teeth, sour juice spilling across his tongue. His face twisted.
"Figures. First real meal in two days, and it tastes like battery acid." He muttered it to himself, because no one else in the world cared to listen.
He sat slouched on a park bench, gray hoodie pulled low. His jeans were ripped at the knees, his sneakers scuffed down to the threads, and his sweatshirt sleeves dangled like chewed ropes. Everything about him screamed "homeless dropout," which, conveniently, was exactly what he was.
The apple still had the vendor's sticker on it.
He rolled it in his palm, staring at the missing bite marks. "Congratulations, Jack. You've graduated. Not college, though. Nope. You graduated from broke student to broke criminal. Round of applause."
The laugh that slipped out was thin, shaky.
Two days ago, his aunt had finally snapped and thrown him out. To be fair, she had always hated him. The only reason she put up with his existence was his father.
Once upon a time, his dad had money. Serious money. The kind that let his aunt live like a queen without lifting a finger. Then it all vanished, fast enough to make people whisper. Not long after, gangs kidnapped his father and dumped his body in a gutter. His aunt lost her golden goose, but she couldn't quite toss the orphaned kid out — not until the last of his father's savings finally dried up.
And now here he was. Eating fruit he stole like a street rat in a fantasy RPG, except with worse loot.
He chewed to the core, sighed, and rummaged in his backpack. His fingers brushed something stiff. A cracked leather wallet.
Inside were a few dull coins. He stared at them for a long moment.
"…Damn it."
He stood, crossed the street, and dropped the coins on the apple vendor's counter. The man never noticed, too busy shouting at customers. Jack didn't wait to be caught.
On his way back, he swiped a half-empty water bottle from an open bag on a bench. He downed it in seconds, savoring the burn as if it were fine wine. "Vintage tap water. Year… yesterday."
Back at his bench, he pulled his hood tight and lay down. The wood dug into his back. Streetlights stabbed through his eyelids. He shifted, restless, but sleep wouldn't come. He had lived most of his life in his aunt's house, hunched over a laptop, diving into systems and games. Out there, he had control. Out here, the world felt like it had teeth.
He sat up, scowling, and flipped open the wallet again, as if it might finally offer something useful. Maybe a note. A photo. Anything.
His fingers caught on something hidden deep inside. He tugged it free.
A card.
His breath hitched. The rectangle was jet-black, glossy, heavier than plastic. No chip. No name. No numbers. Just a polished surface that reflected the streetlight.
Jack's lips curled into a grin. "Oh, you've gotta be kidding me. A bank card? Dad, you sneaky bastard. You left me a cheat code."
He pressed it to his forehead and laughed. "All right, old man. I promise. I won't screw it up this time. New game plus. Let's go."
Hope carried him across the street, toward the convenience store's ATM.
Halfway there, he noticed the figure under a broken streetlamp.
A tall man stood unnaturally still, wrapped in a long crimson hooded coat. The hood shadowed his face, but his presence was sharp, like a knife laid across the air.
Jack muttered, "Nice cosplay, creep." He kept walking. People like him — broke, invisible nobodies — didn't get stalkers.
At the ATM, he shoved the card in. It didn't fit. He flipped it, jammed it again. Nothing.
His grin faltered. "No chip? No strip? You've got to be kidding me. This isn't a bank card. It's a collector's edition coaster."
He turned, muttering curses under his breath — and froze. The red hooded man was crossing the street.
Jack quickened his pace. So did the man.
Panic crawled through him. He broke into a sprint, bag thumping against his side. His lungs burned, his legs stumbled. He wasn't built for this. His sneaker caught on cracked pavement, and he slammed down hard, palms tearing open on the asphalt.
When he looked up, the man loomed over him. Calm. Steady.
Jack pushed himself up, breathing hard. "Okay. What's your deal, Red Riding Hood? You selling candy, or just bad vibes?"
"The card," the man said, voice deep and certain.
Jack blinked, then laughed. "What, this? You've gotta be desperate. It's worth less than me — and I'm literally sleeping on benches."
"Give it."
"Maybe not," Jack snapped. "But it's my father's. It's the only damn thing I have left of him. You think I'm just gonna hand it over?" His laugh was sharp and bitter. "Yeah, right."
Jack gritted his teeth, dug into his bag, and yanked out a collapsible baton. He snapped it open, steel catching the light. His grip was shaky, but his grin was sharp.
The man tilted his head. Beneath the hood, Jack glimpsed a smile. He pulled a card from his coat, identical to Jack's.
The surface flared white. A crimson flame symbol carved itself into the glow, then faded.
Jack's breath caught. "That's… that's not in the collector's edition."
The man rolled back his sleeve. His hand was wrapped in bandages, scorched and torn from wrist to fingertip. With his other hand, he drew a knife and dragged it across his forearm.
Blood welled.
Then the blood caught fire.
Flames crawled across the bandages, racing up his veins, licking his skin without burning. His body became a torch, yet he stood there calmly, eyes glinting beneath the hood.
Jack stumbled back, the baton shaking in his hands. His voice cracked. "Oh my god. You're a freaking demon."
The man stepped closer, raising his burning arm. The fire writhed outward, alive, hungry, reaching for him.
Jack's heart hammered, his mind screaming in disbelief.
The night erupted in red light.