Askel walked without aim for hours.
New York was a labyrinth of lights and shadows, of streets that crossed without meaning, of faces he didn't look at and voices he didn't listen to. The night was cold, damp, and his hoodie was still dirty with smoke and vomit and something he didn't want to identify.
It was like a closed eye that waited.
The smell of pizza hit him before he even saw the place. A smell of melted cheese, tomato, basil, and something deeper — the smell of normal life, of people eating, laughing, who knew nothing of runes and prophecies and fathers of the sea.
Pizza Point was a hole in the wall between a laundromat and a building with murals. A flickering neon light, a dirty sign, a metal counter and a girl serving slices of pizza on paper plates.
Askel approached.
"A margherita," he said. His voice was hoarse, tired.
The girl looked at him with eyes that had seen everything. She asked nothing. She gave him the pizza. Askel paid. Took the slice.
The pizza was hot, greasy, perfect.
Askel ate it walking.
The cheese stretched. The sauce was sweet and sour. For a moment — just one moment — he forgot everything.
Then he heard the screams.
---
They came from the building next door. The building with the murals. From the third floor.
A woman's voice. Screams. Then the sound of furniture falling. Then glass breaking.
Askel looked up.
The third-floor window was lit. Shadows moving. A silhouette being shoved against the wall.
Blood pulsed in his temples.
The pizza fell to the ground.
Askel didn't think. Didn't hesitate. His body moved before his mind.
He ran toward the building. The door was slightly open. He climbed the stairs. Two steps at a time. His heart beating hard, the rune pulsing, the blood boiling.
Third floor. The apartment door was wide open.
Askel walked in.
---
Chaos was everywhere.
The sofa was overturned. The coffee table was in pieces. The TV had fallen to the floor, the screen shattered like a spiderweb of glass. Beer cans were scattered, water from an overturned plant mixing with ink from torn posters.
Rhea was slumped against the wall. One eye was swollen. Blood dripped from her lip. A man held her by the hair, while another rummaged through the wardrobe, throwing clothes and objects on the floor.
"Where the fuck is the wallet?" the man shouted. "Where is it?"
Rhea didn't answer.
Askel didn't hesitate.
"Hey," he said.
His voice was low. Cold. Dangerous.
The two men turned.
One was tall, bald, with a tattoo on his neck. The other was smaller, skinny, with the eyes of a frightened animal.
"Who the fuck are you?" the bald one asked.
Askel didn't answer.
He walked in.
---
The bald one let go of Rhea. Turned toward Askel. A knife appeared in his hand — a long, dirty, sharp blade.
"Choose death, kid?"
Askel didn't speak. Didn't think. The blood in his veins had become fire.
The bald one attacked.
The knife hissed through the air.
Askel moved. The movement wasn't human — it was faster, more fluid, more ancient. He dodged the blade, grabbed the bald one's wrist, and twisted it with a strength he didn't know he had.
The man screamed. The knife fell.
Askel struck.
Not once. Not twice. Three. Four.
His fist crashed against the bald one's face with a wet, devastating sound. Blood. Teeth. Bone shattering. The man's jaw fractured under the blows, the skin tore, blood sprayed across the walls and floor.
The bald one fell. Askel lifted him like a sack of rags. Slammed him against the wall. Once, twice. The wall stained red.
The bald one was still alive. But he wasn't moving. His face was unrecognizable, swollen, covered in blood. His eyes were closed, almost sealed by the bruise swelling beneath the skin.