And he, an idiot, a mere tavern thug, had dared to look.
"What the hell...?" he murmured to himself, the color draining from his face like water down a drain. His legs began to tremble, first slightly, then uncontrollably, losing all the strength that had been holding them up. "I feel... I feel like I'm burning inside. Like something is... looking at me from within."
It wasn't a metaphor. He truly felt it. As if icy worms were slithering through his veins, as if his very soul was shrinking before the presence of something infinitely older and darker than anything he had faced in his years as a street thug.
The panic was instantaneous and undeniable. It wasn't a conscious decision. It was pure, animal instinct, the same that makes a rabbit flee when it senses the shadow of the hawk. The same that makes a dog cower when a true wolf stares it down.
The three troublemakers stumbled back as if struck by an invisible wave. The skinny one tripped over a chair and fell flat on his back on the dirty floor, hitting his head against the hydraulic tiles with a wet smack. Another slammed into a nearby table, spilling drinks and earning curses from patrons who, seeing his terrified expression, chose to keep quiet. The leader, the one with the square jaw, simply staggered backward, his eyes so wide they looked ready to pop out of their sockets.
A sudden silence surrounded them. Not a total silence, because the tavern was still alive—the piano continued playing, laughter continued at other tables—but there was a silence in their immediate bubble. A circle of a few meters where the air had become dense, unbreathable, broken only by some nervous or mocking laughter in the distance, from those who hadn't seen the red eyes but had witnessed the flight.
And it was ridiculous, anyone watching from the outside would think: three grown men fleeing from a fifteen-year-old boy.
Without another word, cursing under their breaths with broken voices and stumbling as if they'd drunk more than the drunkard, the three got out of the tavern. The oak door swung open and slammed shut behind them, leaving only the echo of their escape.
For an instant, from the street came the distant sound of a sputtering engine, perhaps a... and then silence.
The young man stood up with the same calmness with which he had sat down. The same. As if nothing had happened. As if the red eyes had been an illusion. As if he hadn't just made three grown men flee with their tails between their legs.
He approached the drunkard, who lay dazed on the floor, trying unsuccessfully to get up. His lip was split and blood stained his beard red, a crimson thread disappearing into the unbuttoned collar of his shirt. The blow had been strong; he probably had a concussion, maybe a loose tooth or two.
The young man leaned down and extended a hand.
The man looked at it for a moment, confused, as if he didn't understand what this thing being offered to him was. Then, with an effort that seemed monumental, he took it with his trembling hand.
The young man lifted him with a strength that revealed the truth of his body: it wasn't the brute force of a large man, but the dense, compact strength of someone who had spent thousands of hours training. His muscles, defined beneath the wool of his sweater, responded with silent efficiency, lifting the drunkard as if he weighed far less than he actually did. There was no apparent effort, only a controlled, precise, almost mechanical movement.
He helped him sit in a chair.
The drunkard blinked, trying to focus. His hand went to his lip, he saw the blood on his fingers, and then his eyes, still clouded by alcohol but now with a flash of lucidity that the blow had accelerated, fixed on the boy's.
The young man's eyes were once again dark. Deep. Calm. As if they had never changed.
But the drunkard had seen. He had seen something, even if he didn't know exactly what. He had seen the abyss, and the abyss had looked back at him.
His voice was barely a thread of sound, laden with a fear that alcohol couldn't drown.
"Who...?" He swallowed with difficulty; the taste was metallic, of blood and fear. "Who the hell are you?"
The fear in his eyes was now a strange brew: alcohol, confusion, and something that was beginning to resemble admiration. Or perhaps relief. The chaos of the tavern had returned to its usual volume, but within a radius of a few meters around them, silence was a tense bubble no one dared to break.
The young man looked at him for a moment. Then, his hand went to the silver pendant resting on his chest. He touched it softly, like someone seeking comfort in a cherished object. Or like someone remembering a promise. Or perhaps like someone making sure it was still there, that everything he had lost hadn't been in vain.
The warm light of the floating bulbs danced across his face, but it couldn't soothe the expression in his eyes. There wasn't sadness in them, exactly. There was something heavier. Something he had been carrying for a long time.
He didn't respond.
Instead, the young man guided him back to his chair with a hand that was firm but not rough, and sat down across from him. His gaze had returned to its original dark color, inscrutable as a bottomless well.
A few seconds passed. Maybe minutes. The wall clock, an old artifact with a brass pendulum, marked time with dull thuds that seemed slower than normal. The drunkard didn't dare speak. The young man seemed distant, lost somewhere only he knew.
Until finally, the young man decided to open his mouth.
"I am Samael… Samael Ashbourne," he said. His voice was clear and calm, cutting through the background noise like a sharp knife. "And now, you tell me. Who are you really when you're not drowning yourself in this misery?"
The question fell like a stone into still water.
The man, disconcerted by the direct question and Samael's intensity, lowered his gaze to his empty glass. The courage the liquor had given him had vanished, leaving only raw truth. And there, at the bottom of the glass, there were no answers. Only remnants of alcohol and his own eyes reflected faintly.
Just by observing the young man with dark eyes… those eyes pierced deep into the drunkard. Making any resistance, physical or mental, just… nothing.
"I'm Ed Tonor," he finally said, and the weight of the words made his voice crack. "And my… my girlfriend. She left me."
He paused, as if confessing it aloud made it more real. More painful.
"That's why I'm here. That's why… I drink."
Samael nodded slowly, without surprise.
"I see," he said. "He already said it, didn't…" He corrected himself, frowning as he organized his thoughts. "You were saying it. When you were talking to yourself, before I arrived. But I thought it was just… you know, drunk talk."
He paused, and for a moment his eyes seemed to lose focus, as if looking at something that wasn't there.
"Truly, some things never change," he continued, more to himself than to Ed. "When your love leaves you… well, that's the only way to let it out, I suppose."
"I know I'm not the most attractive man in the world," Ed said, and his voice grew higher, more cracked. "But she didn't have to leave me like that! Just like that, after three years! I can't accept that. No, I can't."
Sniff-sniff.
Tears began to roll down his cheeks, carving paths through the dirt and dried blood on his split lip. A grown man, crying like a child in a tavern in front of a stranger.
Samael watched him for a long moment, without a trace of judgment on his face. Only a deep understanding, one that seemed forged in fire and pain. And like someone who has seen this scene a thousand times. Or perhaps who has been through this stage himself, who knows.
"Really?" he asked.