Fighting shadows

The cold Chicago rain was a familiar torment, mirroring the chill that had settled deep in Elias’s bones. He’d just walked away from Liam’s gym, the phantom ache of his last fight still a dull throb in his knuckles and ribs. The $560 in his pocket felt insultingly meager, a stark reminder of Liam’s constant exploitation and his own endless struggle.

He pulled the hood of his worn black sweatshirt tighter, the fabric coarse against his cheek. The city lights blurred into streaks of indifferent color as he navigated the slick, grimy streets. Every shadow seemed to stretch and twist, morphing into the shapes of past demons—his father’s enraged face, the flash of the knife, the sickening thud of bodies hitting the pavement when he first arrived in this city.

His stomach rumbled, a sharp contrast to the dull ache of his exhaustion. He was heading to the grocery store, not as a customer, but for another grueling, mind-numbing shift. Stocking shelves, avoiding eye contact, being just another faceless cog in the machine. It was a temporary reprieve, a necessary evil to keep the meager hope of his own apartment alive.

The knife, hidden securely in his pocket, felt like a familiar weight, a morbid comfort. It was a piece of his past he refused to let go, a constant, sharp reminder of what he was capable of, what he’d had to do to survive. It was the only thing connecting him to the boy he used to be, before he became Crow.

The voices, always the voices, began to whisper at the edges of his mind, their taunts insidious, familiar. Worthless. Alone. Never enough. He gritted his teeth, shoving them back down, focusing on the rhythmic splash of his worn sneakers hitting the puddles. He had to keep moving. He couldn't stop. Not yet. He wouldn't let them win.