Prologue — Rain and Hunger
The rain wouldn't stop.
It fell in heavy sheets, washing the color from the world until everything turned gray.
The little boy stood where his mother had left him — a narrow alley behind the old station, clutching the hem of his soaked shirt.
"She'll come back," he whispered to himself, voice trembling. "She said she'll come back soon."
Hours passed. The streetlights flickered. The puddles deepened.
But no footsteps returned. No voice called his name.
He waited until the night bled into morning, until his legs ached and his stomach burned with hunger. People passed him — umbrellas, coats, hurried feet — none of them looked down. None saw the small boy shivering beneath the gutter's edge, eyes swollen from crying.
By the second day, his lips were cracked, and his stomach twisted so hard it hurt to breathe. The rain had turned cold, biting. He pressed a hand against his belly, trying to stop the ache.
That's when he smelled it — roasted chicken from a shop down the street. The scent made his mouth water, dizzy with need.
He watched from across the road. The shopkeeper turned his back, and something desperate snapped inside him.
Before he could think, the boy darted forward, grabbed a small roasted chicken, and ran.
"THIEF!" The shout ripped through the rain.
The man's heavy boots splashed after him. "Stop! You filthy street rat!"
The boy ran harder, his bare feet slapping against wet stone, clutching the chicken to his chest. But the man was faster — a meaty hand caught his collar, yanking him backward.
The chicken fell into the mud.
"You think you can steal from me?" The shopkeeper's slap cracked against his cheek. "You think this is a charity?"
The boy didn't answer. He only cried — soft, broken sounds swallowed by the storm.
"Pathetic," the man spat, shoving him into the street.
The boy stumbled, blinded by tears. A blaring horn — headlights — and then the screech of brakes.
He froze.
The car stopped inches away. The door opened, slow and deliberate.
A man stepped out. Tall. Black coat. Sharp eyes beneath the rain. He looked at the trembling child with something that wasn't pity — but curiosity.
The shopkeeper rushed forward, stammering, "Sir, he's a thief! Tried to steal from my shop—"
The stranger raised a hand. Silence.
Then, with a voice like quiet thunder, he asked, "When a starving dog bites, do you blame its teeth?"
The shopkeeper faltered. The stranger crouched, meeting the boy's wide, frightened eyes.
"What's your name?"
The boy's lips parted, but no sound came. He didn't remember anymore. Just the rain. Just the waiting.
The man studied him — then stood. "You'll come with me."
He offered a gloved hand. The boy hesitated, then took it — because no one else ever had.
Inside the car, warmth and the faint scent of smoke wrapped around him. The man handed him a plate of food. The boy ate like it was the first time he'd ever been allowed to live.
"Eat," the man said quietly. "You'll need strength."
When the boy finally looked up, the man was watching him with a strange calm.
"From now on," he said, voice low, certain, "your name is Ariyan Vincent."
The rain still fell outside, but the boy didn't feel it anymore.
That night, something inside him died — and something colder was born.
----
Earlier that night, before the storm grew wild, Vincent had already lost something.
He stood in the middle of his study, watching her pack her things with trembling hands.
"I can't live like this anymore, Vincent." Her voice was tired, frayed by fear. "Every time you leave, I wonder if you'll come back alive. I can't keep waiting like that. I need peace. I need a life that doesn't reek of blood and danger. Or if one day they'll bring me your body instead."
He didn't move, just leaned against the doorframe, jaw tight.
"You knew who I was," he said softly. "You knew my world."
She turned, eyes glossy with tears. "I thought love could change you. But your world doesn't change—it devours everything. I can't live in its shadow anymore."
He reached for her wrist, not rough, not pleading—just human. "Stay. I'll fix it."
She smiled, sad and small. "You can't fix who you are."
Then she walked out into the rain.
Vincent didn't stop her. He just stood there, watching the door close, the echo of her footsteps fading into thunder.
Vincent stood there, motionless, jaw clenched, rain leaking through the open window. A single glass on the table caught the lightning — sharp, fractured, beautiful, like the life that had just shattered.
When he finally stepped out that night, he wasn't looking for redemption.
He exhaled, long and low. Then he grabbed his coat and stepped into the rain.
---
The streets were flooded, shimmering with reflections of neon signs and stormlight. Somewhere between the rolling thunder and the smell of wet asphalt, he saw him , a small boy, soaked, trembling, clutching a stolen chicken as he ran from a shouting shopkeeper.
Something in the scene stopped him cold.
Maybe it was the fear in the boy's eyes.
Maybe it was the echo of a promise he'd never kept.
Vincent moved before he could think.
"You can't save everyone, Vincent," her voice echoed in his mind.
He looked at the boy, small and silent beside him.
"Maybe not everyone," he murmured. "But I can save this one."
{Fate had other plans.}