The old woman lay there, sprawled on the floor, her body soaked in blood. Her clothes were torn, hands trembling, eyes barely open, struggling to breathe. The world around Azrael seemed to warp, to fragment into shards he could not comprehend. His entire body froze, his heart pounding so violently that it felt as though it would explode. Every shallow breath she drew felt like a blade tearing through his chest, piercing deep into his soul.
She tried to speak, her voice rough, hoarse from the effort."Boy… I'm… I'm sorry… that you have to see me like this…"
Azrael screamed, his voice breaking under the weight of panic and anguish.
Azrael: "No! Stop! Don't speak! I can… I can heal you! It's… it's not too late!"
She coughed violently, a thin ribbon of blood spilling from her lips, yet she continued, forcing the words through trembling lungs."I always tried to hide this side of myself… but I've sinned… I… I never knew how to free myself… I… I stole… I took to survive…"
Azrael dropped to his knees beside her, his hands shaking uncontrollably, his breath ragged and uneven.
Azrael: "Stop… I beg you! Stop! This can't be true! You're going to be fine!"
The old woman placed a frail hand on his arm, a sorrowful smile barely lifting her lips."In finding you… I tried… but my sins caught up with me… I never knew how to repent…"
Azrael shook his head violently, his entire body trembling as his fingers dug into the blood-soaked fabric.
Azrael: "No… stop talking! Stop!"
His eyes were dark with despair, voice shredded by grief, yet she did not falter."Take this money… for which I've sinned… and go, my son … begin your life… let me achieve my repentance through you…"
At that moment, Azrael felt the world collapse around him. His knees hit the cold floor, hands gripping the old woman's shoulders, face pressed against the bloodied fabric, soaked in sweat and fear. He screamed—a howl of rage, pain, and despair. All his life, all the blows he had endured, every wound, both seen and unseen, had never prepared him for this. His hatred poured over the world, a dark storm unleashed upon the cruel reality that had dared to take from him what little warmth he had found.
Voices erupted across the alley, distant whispers sharpening into shouts, footsteps pounding, eyes turning toward him. Azrael lifted his head.
The crowd surged around the house, their murmurs and screams echoing in his ears, suffocating and oppressive. The air was thick with hatred, judgment, every face a condemning mirror of his suffering.
Crowd: "It's him… it's Azrael!"
Crowd: "He killed the old woman!"
Crowd: "Look at his hands covered in blood!"
Crowd: "For money… he had the audacity!"
Crowd: "Seize him!"
Azrael rose, legs weak beneath him, heart hammering as if it would shatter his chest. His black, hollow eyes reflected the horror of his loss. The crowd closed in, their voices pounding in his mind like relentless hammers. The betrayal of the world, the injustice of his life, the shadow of every pain endured—all of it crashed down in a single, crushing wave.
He tried to speak, to scream his anguish, but no sound came.
Azrael: "Listen… I… I didn't…" His words vanished into the chaos, drowned by shouts and accusations.
His bloodied hands shook violently. He grabbed the envelope the old woman had left, clutching it like a lifeline amid an ocean of hatred and despair. He could barely breathe, his vision blurred. Every face in the crowd seemed alive with accusation, reflecting everything the world had stolen from him.
Then he surged forward, pushing through bodies, striking without thought, leaving chaos and crimson footprints in his wake. The alley swallowed him. The night was cold, wind biting through his torn clothes. The city he had begun to understand now felt alien, cruel. Every step a torment, every breath a struggle. He ran without direction, without purpose, mind screaming into the void.
Azrael traversed streets he had known for a year, every corner and shadow a reminder of what he had learned about life, survival… and now, all of it lay in ruins. He was back at square one: alone, lost, trembling with cold and rage. The blood on his hands would not dry, burning like an indelible mark of pain and fury.
He collapsed into a side alley, pressing against the damp wall. The icy wind lashed his skin, but he felt nothing. His black eyes were hollow, incapable of shedding even a single tear. The body of the old woman, her warmth, the gentleness of her hands—all seemed swallowed by an abyss. He clutched the envelope to his chest, the only tether to reality, the sole reminder of the life she had tried to give him.
Azrael unleashed his fury. Words, curses, screams that echoed only within him, reverberating through the cold night. He cursed the world, every being around him, the one who had condemned him to this fate, even his own life. Fingers trembling, body shivering, yet he continued to scream, hate, and rage into the empty darkness.
The night stretched on endlessly. Each breath Azrael drew was a pulse of pain, every shadow along the walls a reminder of loss. He felt as though the entire world had turned against him, that everything he had learned about life and trust had crumbled into dust.
Finally, he slumped against the wall, panting, eyes vacant, hands still soaked in blood. All that remained was pure, black, frozen hatred—and the searing memory of the old woman. Her warmth, her patience, the light she had tried to kindle… all gone, crushed beneath the cruelty of the world and the horror of reality.
Azrael held the envelope close, and in the icy silence of the alley, he wept—not with visible tears, but with an inner scream that shattered what little remained inside him. A silent howl that demanded vengeance, an end to the suffering, an impossible atonement.
In that darkness, alone with his fury, he realized one thing: life had never granted him reprieve. The warmth of the old woman, the light she had tried to give him… all had been ripped away. And now, only he remained—lost, consumed by rage, blood, and despair—in the frozen night of a city that had betrayed him.