Instead of a grunt or a threat, a clumsy, kind-hearted smile spread across his flushed face. One of those smiles only friendly drunks have, those who drink to drown their sorrows, not to pick fights.
"Hey...llo, young man!" he slurred, raising his mug with a trembling hand, spilling half its contents onto the table. "You co...me to toast with an old... uhm... with a young drunk? Sit, sit! Make yourself at home, the beer... uhm... the beer is mine."
The boy didn't respond. He merely gave a slight nod and raised his hand to call the bartender. He ordered some food—a plate of stew—and a non-alcoholic drink, water with lemon and a touch of mint.
When the food arrived, steaming and fragrant, the drunkard, in an act of kindness that contrasted with his state, pointed at the plate with a wavering finger.
"Eat, eat. You look... tired. A warrior needs to eat," he said, with surprising clarity given how drunk he was, before taking another swig from his mug. "Warriors who don't eat, lose. My father used to say that. He was a warrior. Well... he was. Not anymore. He's nothing now."
The young man looked at him, and for an instant, the hardness in his eyes seemed to soften. Just an instant. A barely perceptible flicker. This man, drowning in alcohol and memories, was offering him what little he had: a plate of food that wasn't his and some poorly strung-together words of encouragement.
In the midst of that chaos of drunks, debtors, and loan sharks, they had found a strange, isolated peace. The young man ate in silence, and the drunkard kept drinking, telling disjointed stories about his father, about a woman who left him, about a dog named Shaggy. The young man listened without interrupting, and in his silence there was something akin to respect.
Until they arrived.
The young man sighed, a sound so soft only he heard it.
"Here we go again," he muttered under his breath. "It's always the same thing. It never changes."
A group of three thuggish-looking types planted themselves in front of their table. They were the kind who feed on others' insecurity, who look for an unfortunate glance to justify their violence. The leader, a broad guy with a square jaw and tattooed arms, leaned over the table, resting his hands on the wood with contempt.
"Hey, kid. Who are you hanging out with, huh?" he asked, a crooked smile revealing yellowish teeth. "That drunk your dad? Or do you just like keeping losers company?"
The young man didn't respond. He kept chewing his food with a calmness bordering on insulting.
"Hey, I'm talking to—" The thug didn't finish his sentence.
The drunkard interrupted him, standing up with a pathetic difficulty. He grabbed the table to keep from falling, swaying like a ship in a storm, but his intention was clear. His eyes, still glazed, gleamed with a spark of misguided dignity.
"You lisshen here, you thugs!" he slurred, waving an accusing finger clumsily. "Get outta here if you don' wanna shee me angry!"
He tried to step between the young man and the thugs, swaying dangerously. His beer-stained chest offered itself as an absurd shield.
The three bullies looked at each other for a second, then burst out laughing.
"And who does this idiot think he is?" one of the thugs sneered, the skinniest one, with a cruel, amused grimace.
"Does he think we're at a circus?" another chimed in, pointing at the drunkard. "Who hired this piece of shit clown? He should be charging admission!"
The leader, the one with the square jaw, didn't laugh. His amusement was of a different kind. Colder. More methodical.
And without a word, without a single warning, he threw a punch straight at the drunkard's face.
Wham!
The blow was sharp, brutal, a sound that cracked through the tavern like a whip. The man fell backwards like a sack of potatoes, his head hitting the polished cement floor with a dull, wet thud.
The young man, for the first time, set his fork down on the plate. Very slowly. Very silently.
"Wha-what... did you... do to me...?" the drunkard stammered from the floor, trying unsuccessfully to get up. His trembling hand pointed at the aggressors. "You'll... pay for thish... I swear... you'll pay..."
"Ignore him," the skinny one muttered, holding back his companion, who was already moving to beat the fallen man again. "Not worth it. Look, he's already pissing outside the pot."
Thump!
The lead thug now struck the young man's table, making it shake violently. The plate jumped, the drink spilled.
"You want me to hit you so you'll answer me too?" he asked, frowning viciously. "Or are you mute as well as a runt? When a man asks you a question, you answer!"
There was no response.
At least, not with words.
Just a gesture. A simple look.
The boy had his head slightly bowed, his chin almost touching his chest. But then, with deliberate, almost insulting slowness, he began to raise it. His features, previously serene, became shadowed by the dim light coming from behind.
And then, his eyes changed.
His eyes, which before were a dark, almost black color, now blazed with an intense red. It wasn't a reflection, not a trick of the light. It was a deep red, like freshly stoked embers, like the depths of a forge.
There was no magical flash. No words of power. No grandiose gestures. Just a look.
And then, the thug's world crumbled.
It wasn't physical pain. It wasn't a blow. It was something worse. It was like an icy hand piercing through his chest, through his ribs, gripping his soul with frozen fingers.
In an instant, he saw his own life. Not as a pleasant memory, but as something insignificant. A small, weak flame, about to be snuffed out by an infinite, cold wind blowing from those red eyes.
In those eyes he saw the promise of a slow death. Of a suffering he hadn't even imagined in his worst nightmares. He saw corpses. He saw blood. He saw a darkness so deep that the darkest night was a sunny day in comparison.
This wasn't a child. This wasn't just some young man.
This was an abyss disguised as a person.