Chapter 1 The unseen

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The cough wracked Alastor's body, a ragged, tearing sound that echoed the hollowness within him. He hunched deeper into the threadbare blanket, its meager warmth doing little to stave off the chill that seeped from the cracked windowpanes and the damp, rotting floorboards. The single bare bulb hanging precariously from the ceiling cast long, skeletal shadows that danced with the dust motes swirling in the stale air. His meager room, barely larger than a coffin, was a testament to his life: a desolate landscape of neglect and despair.

Another spasm of pain twisted his gut, a familiar phantom that reminded him of the cancer gnawing at his insides, a relentless tide slowly eroding the very foundation of his being. He was seventeen, a ghost teetering on the precipice of death, abandoned to the mercy of a world that had shown him only cruelty. The silence, broken only by his labored breaths and the occasional creak of the dilapidated building, was a suffocating blanket, pressing down on him with the weight of his loneliness. Outside, the city thrummed with a life he could no longer partake in, a vibrant tapestry woven from sounds and laughter that were forever beyond his reach.

His stomach growled, a low, desperate rumble that echoed the emptiness gnawing at his soul. There was nothing left to eat, not a crumb, not a drop. The gnawing hunger pushed him past the limits of his already weakened body. Desperation clawed at him, a primal urge to survive overriding the pain and exhaustion. He pulled on the tattered remnants of his clothes, his movements slow and deliberate, each breath a struggle.

He slipped out into the alley, the cold night air biting at his exposed skin. His shadow stretched long and thin behind him, a spectral companion in the labyrinthine maze of trash cans and discarded refuse. He spotted a half-eaten loaf of bread in a dumpster, a small, pathetic offering in the face of his hunger. As he reached for it, a gruff voice barked at him. "Hey, scrawny! That's mine!"

"Hey, scrawny! That's mine!" The gruff voice, laced with menace, ripped Alastor from the meager comfort of the discarded bread. He froze, his hand still hovering over the half-eaten loaf, the bitter taste of impending starvation already on his tongue. He didn't dare move, his body trembling beneath the weight of his exhaustion and the growing dread.

He saw the fists, hard and cruel, hurtling towards him. Instinct, sharper than any thought, propelled him forward. He stumbled, the remnants of yesterday's beating still aching in his limbs. He had to run.

He bolted, weaving through the narrow alleyways, his lungs burning, his legs protesting with each desperate stride. The city roared around him, a chaotic symphony of sirens, car horns, and distant shouts. Each footstep was a victory, a tiny, fleeting reprieve from the relentless pursuit.

But they were relentless. "Where do you think you're going, you cancer bastard?" The voice, a guttural growl, cut through the night air, the words echoing like a thunderclap in his ears. He felt heavy footsteps pounding close behind him, the crunching of gravel beneath their boots a terrifying metronome counting down his escape.

"Leave me alone!" he gasped, his voice a mere whisper against the approaching terror. He rounded a corner, his body hitting the cold, damp wall with a thud.

"You cancer bastard wanting to steal from me?" The voice drew closer, the gruffness now laced with cruel amusement. He was cornered, trapped in a narrow passage between a towering dumpster and a crumbling brick wall. There was nowhere left to run.

His pursuers blocked his path, their faces obscured by shadows, their eyes gleaming with hunger and cruelty. One of them grabbed his arm, his grip like iron. "You're going nowhere, scrawny."

The rough hands tightened around his arm, digging into his already bruised flesh. A searing pain shot through him, but Alastor didn't cry out. He had learned long ago that pain was a constant companion, a dull ache woven into the very fabric of his existence. Tears, he discovered, were a luxury he could no longer afford.

They dragged him into the dim recesses of the alley, away from the meager illumination of the streetlights. The darkness offered a perverse kind of anonymity, a temporary veil against the humiliation that was about to follow. He braced himself, his body coiled tight with a desperate, futile resistance.

The blows rained down, a relentless barrage that left him gasping for breath, his vision blurring at the edges. Kicks landed on his ribs, his stomach, the impact sending jolts of agonizing pain through his body. He tasted blood again, a metallic tang that mingled with the dust and grime of the alley floor. Their taunts were a cruel symphony of malice, each word a hammer blow against his already shattered spirit.

They mocked his illness, his poverty, his helplessness. They were demons cloaked in human skin, their faces contorted with an almost ritualistic savagery. He tried to protect himself, to curl into a fetal position, but their kicks and punches found their targets with brutal efficiency.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the assault ended. They left him lying in the alley, a broken, bleeding heap of humanity, discarded like so much refuse. Silence descended, broken only by Alastor's ragged breathing and the distant, indifferent hum of the city. He lay there, his body bruised and battered, his spirit fractured, the cold seeping into his bones. The pain was almost a relief, a numb, dull ache that dulled the sharper sting of despair. He was alone, utterly alone, with nothing but the bitter taste of blood and the crushing weight of his own mortality. In the suffocating darkness, a spark of something else began to grow and he felt it, something cold, something... different. A slow, insidious burn that began in his gut and crept its way into his soul. He didn't know what it was but he didn't have to right now.