Darkness and Moonlight
A figure lay motionless on the cold, hard ground. Moonlight seeped through a narrow hole above, casting a pale beam across his body. The surrounding silence was broken only by the steady drip of water, and the lingering scent of salt filled the air.
A dry, raspy laugh echoed from the figure.
"You're probably wondering how I ended up here. Name's L—"
The memory was interrupted by shouts.
"Hey, Lisa! Get back here, you little rascal!" A man dressed in black sprinted down a dark alley, several others following behind.
"Why the hell are you chasing me?!" a boy yelled, his breath ragged as fear gripped his chest. He was small, barely able to outrun them. His heart pounded like a war drum.
One of the thugs—a massive brute—closed in fast. With a single motion, he grabbed the boy by the collar and hoisted him off the ground.
"The boss is gonna be real happy. Big payday."
They hauled him to an abandoned warehouse. The building was cold, its air thick with the stench of urine and stale beer. Black plastic chairs surrounded a dented steel table, littered with instant noodle cups and broken glass.
"Tie him up," ordered the man in black.
The boy struggled, but he was no match. Another thug brought over a rope attached to a heavy metal hook and threw it over a ceiling beam with ease. The boy watched in disbelief at the strength.
"Why are you doing this?" he gasped.
Footsteps echoed. Another man arrived, brandishing a steel bat. Without warning, he swung it into the boy's ribs.
A choked scream escaped as the boy's body convulsed. His shirt was torn open, revealing a fresh bruise on his side. Etched on his back was a strange tattoo: a circle encasing a pointed star.
The man in black grinned. "Now, listen. Agree to cooperate, and we won't hurt you any more than we have to."
The boy lifted his bloodied face and muttered, "Go... f-fuck yourself."
Veins bulged on the man's temple. "Don't kill him. Not like you could, anyway."
They hoisted him up by the wrists. A thug pulled out a pocket knife and began to stab—relentlessly, methodically. The boy's screams turned hoarse as blood pooled beneath him. His body hung limp, yet remarkably, he clung to life. No vital organs had been struck—deliberately.
"You done yet?" called the one with the bat.
He stepped forward and swung again, this time at the boy's wrist. A sickening "crack" followed. The boy shook violently, his eyes wild with agony, his body twitching from the onslaught.
Outside, across the street, muffled cries could be heard.
"Should we call the police?" a young man asked.
"Are you crazy?" an old woman snapped, nudging him with her cane. "They've got men inside. We'd end up just like him."
Inside, the torture continued.
"Step aside," said the man in black, rolling up his sleeves.
He punched the boy's face repeatedly, treating him like a hanging bag of meat. The boy didn't scream anymore. His eyes were red with tears, his jaw slack, and blood dripped from every angle.
"What now, boss?" someone asked.
The knife-wielding thug slapped the boy across the face. He barely flinched. His consciousness flickered like a dying flame.
A final blow to the stomach forced a spray of blood and bile from his mouth. His mind echoed with a single thought:
Why me? Why must it always be me? It's not my fault I'm... different.
"Still alive, brat?"
They cut him loose. He crumpled to the floor, curling into himself, shaking. Then something... changed.
A golden light appeared, radiating warmth. Pain faded. Numbness disappeared. For a moment, it was peace. He stood, eyes closed, his head bowed.
Then—he ran.
"Catch him!"
His legs moved, but they were sluggish, numb. He stumbled. The door was so close—yet impossibly far. He collapsed, writhing on the ground as the light vanished and agony returned like a tidal wave.
"You really thought you could escape?" sneered a thug.
They grabbed him easily, dragging him back. He twitched but couldn't resist. His consciousness slipped again.
"Bring him here," the boss ordered.
He was hauled to the center of the room. The boss pulled on a pair of black leather gloves—each knuckle adorned with steel spikes.
A punch. Then another.
No sound escaped the boy, only grunts as his broken body swung with each hit. His lips were cracked, bleeding. His eyes fluttered open just enough to see the horror unfold.
The boss loosened his belt, unzipping his pants.
"Boss, isn't this going too far...?" one thug murmured.
The others laughed nervously, but something was off. The boss laughed too—but it was the broken laugh of someone long past sanity.
Then—
"STOP!"
A sudden movement. A figure appeared at the warehouse entrance. A young woman—pale, brunette, emerald eyes glowing with fury.
"You sick bastards… will pay."
The thugs laughed, until she vanished. In a flash, she appeared in front of the boss.
"Bye-bye," she whispered.
Her knee connected with his jaw. He flew backward, smashing into a beam, collapsing with a crunch.
"Boss! You bitch!" one shouted, charging her with a knife. She dodged mid-air, spun, and struck the back of his head. He crumpled instantly.
Police sirens wailed in the distance.
"Boss, I thought you had an inside man!" one thug cried, panicking.
"Someone ratted us out!" snarled another.
The metal door creaked open again. Officers entered, horrified by the carnage. The lead detective, an aging man with white-flecked hair, took a step inside and recoiled at the sight: bodies, blood, and a boy clinging to life by sheer will.
"Take them away," he muttered.
He approached the girl.
"Who are you?"
She looked at him coldly. "Michelle," she said.
He blinked. Recognition flashed in his eyes before he composed himself and extended a hand. She shook it and walked past him.
Outside, officers talked in hushed voices.
"Think that was 'the' Michelle?"
"No way," one replied. "That legend? Can't be."
The older officer, Dave, stayed silent.
'She's back... and if I could just get—'
"Hey, you listening?" his partner asked. "Who do you think did all that?"
Dave smirked faintly. "Assassins, probably."
Back inside, Michelle gently lifted the broken boy into her arms, carrying him bridal-style.
"Michelle…" he whispered. Tears welled at the corners of his closed eyes. His wounds began to close—healing on their own, as though the light had returned.
"Yes," she whispered.
And she made a silent promise: Never again. Never again would anyone hurt him while she still breathed.
She held him close as he finally passed out, safe for the first time in a long, long time.