Aeron's eyes fluttered open to the sight of a grin hovering inches from his face. Yellowed teeth gleamed in the dim light, framed by cracked lips and a jaw that twitched with amusement. The man's eyes were sharp and glinting, the kind of eyes that had seen far too many desperate men broken beneath them.
Instinct jolted Aeron backward, his muscles screaming with protest. Pain seared through his ribs, and a hiss slipped past his teeth before he could stop it.
"Ah, finally awake, are we?" the stranger drawled, leaning closer. His breath was rancid, thick with the stench of rot and stale liquor. "I'll admit, I didn't think you'd pull through. But luck, it seems, had a soft spot for you tonight."
Aeron's mind was slow, fog clinging stubbornly to his thoughts. He forced himself upright, blinking against the dimness until the room swam into focus. The walls were stained with grime, cracked in places where time and fists had left their mark. Rusted pipes leaked in the corners, and the air carried the metallic tang of blood overlaid with sweat and decay.
"Who… are you?" His voice was hoarse, roughened by thirst and exhaustion. A cough followed, racking his chest with jolts of pain.
The man waved a dismissive hand, as if the question were beneath him. "Names aren't important, boy. What matters is debt." He grinned again, wide and cruel. "And you owe me."
---
Aeron frowned, his mind working sluggishly. "Owe… you what?"
"Nothing too grand." The man leaned back in his chair, folding his arms as though savoring the moment. "Just eighty-seven percent of your winnings."
The words landed like a blow. Winnings? Aeron's last memories were of the arena—blood, the roar of the crowd, the desperate fight for survival. He had survived. Somehow. But a fortune? He hadn't seen a single coin.
"I don't even know who you are," Aeron muttered, pressing a hand to his temple as if to steady the fragments of memory cutting through his skull.
The man chuckled, a low, grating sound that oozed amusement. "Doesn't matter who I am. What matters is I've been patient. Patient enough to let your little tab grow. But tonight, when fortune finally smiles on you, it's only right that I collect my share."
---
Aeron's eyes shifted, taking in the others in the room. Shadows leaned against the walls—men with metal rods, blades strapped casually at their sides, eyes cold and watchful. Muscle. Enforcers. His body was too broken to fight, and even if it weren't, the odds were impossible.
"How much will be left?" Aeron asked at last, his voice flat, his anger buried under forced calm. "After you take your cut."
"Oh, you'll have enough." The man smirked, holding up his hands as if to show his generosity. "Enough to eat. Enough to sleep. Maybe even enough for a bandage or two. I'm not cruel, lad—I'm fair."
Aeron's jaw clenched. His fingers curled into the rough fabric of his pants, nails biting into the cloth. Every fiber of him screamed to lash out, but reason won over pride. "Fine," he said through gritted teeth.
"Smart boy." The man clapped his hands, the sound echoing through the room like a mockery. "Eight!" he barked, and one of the lackeys straightened. "Escort him home. Make sure he gets what's left of his share. Oh, and of course, deduct the escort fee. Three percent. Bargain price, wouldn't you agree?"
---
"No need," Aeron said sharply. He forced himself upright, ignoring the fire in his ribs. His gaze hardened into cold steel. "I'll go alone."
The room froze. For a heartbeat, silence weighed heavy. Then the man threw back his head and laughed, the sound loud and ugly, joined quickly by the others.
"You? Walk alone? From the coliseum district to your little shack?" He slapped his knee, wheezing with laughter. "Either you're braver than I thought, or just plain stupid."
Aeron straightened, though his body trembled beneath the effort. His breaths came shallow and uneven, but his eyes never wavered from the man's. "I said I'll go alone."
The grin faded, replaced by something colder. The man studied him for a long moment, then leaned forward, his voice dropping. "Suit yourself. But don't say I didn't warn you."
---
Aeron turned and limped out, each step dragging his battered body further from the suffocating stink of the room. Behind him, laughter rose again, ugly and mocking, chased by a final parting call:
"Good luck surviving the night, boy. You'll need it!"
The streets outside swallowed him in darkness. Narrow alleys twisted into one another, lit by sputtering lamps and flickering neon signs. Every shadow looked like a threat, every sound like a warning. This city was no place for the weak—or the unguarded.
As he pressed on, the book's voice broke the silence, calm and clinical.
"You should have accepted the escort."
Aeron scowled, muttering under his breath. "I'll survive just fine without your input."
"Perhaps. But pride has a cost. Don't let it be your downfall."
Aeron ignored it, focusing on each agonizing step. He didn't trust the book, but right now, it was the only constant in this fractured world.
The city stretched endlessly before him, cruel and uncaring. Somewhere in its depths lay answers—about the fight, the debt, and the twisted fate he had been shackled to.
And Aeron swore that, one way or another, he would uncover them.