Across the empty boulevard, seven or eight burly men in black relentlessly pursued a teenager, the chase spanning three blocks already.
The teenager, naturally, didn't reply. He even had the time to think, "If they want to catch me, shouldn't they be conserving their breath? Why shout? Do they think I'll stop? Illogical."
"Stop running!" The men in black continued their pursuit.
The teenager's running form was... unique. His head tilted to the right, his left eye on the road ahead, his right eye on his pursuers.
"The seaside villa district is too open, nowhere to hide. East or north leads out of the district, and I don't know what's out there. I have to lure them to the southern slums..."
Silently planning his route, Kosma's right eye caught a glimpse of a gun barrel.
"Finally decided to use it?"
Kosma knew why they hadn't fired yet. Three reasons: One, they were confident they could catch him. Two, gunshots travel far, potentially alerting his accomplices. Three, bullets were expensive, especially pistol rounds. Half a pound of compressed biscuits for three bullets, and unlike certain other commodities, bullets were often unavailable even if you had the food.
But no matter. It was just a gun. Kosma smirked, thinking, "Is that all you've got?", darting into a side alley.
Three shots rang out.
The first hit a distant streetlight, leaving a small black hole in the white pole.
The second shattered a second-story window, screams and wails erupting from within. Blood and flesh splattered onto the street, leaving crimson stains.
The third grazed the teenager's waist, tearing his dark shirt, then lodged in a thick wooden railing, sending splinters flying.
Click! Click! The man with the gun pulled the trigger twice more, but it was empty. He resumed the chase on foot.
"Ugh..." Kosma grunted, clutching his side, continuing to run.
He quickly glanced at his palm. Crimson blood welled up.
He shouldn't have looked. The pain had been minor, his waist just feeling cold. Now, with each stride, the tearing and burning sensation intensified.
"I'm shot? No, impossible!"
His hand quickly brushed against his waist. As expected, a wood splinter was embedded in his flesh.
He checked his pocket, feeling a small bump. He sighed in relief.
"Good, the evidence is safe. If I deliver this to Anadiya, the outside world will know what's happening here, and everyone will be saved..."
Clinging to this belief, he ran, numbly, a long trail of blood marking his path, like an invisible tether loosely binding him, yet not hindering his steps.
The alley narrowed, the light dimmed, the ground turned muddy, and the air filled with the stench of decay.
Stumbling on the uneven ground, Kosma braced himself against a wall, but didn't stop. His slender arms propelled him forward, his thin frame bouncing off the wall like a basketball, resuming his desperate flight.
"This is Krooni Street. Six hundred meters ahead, turn left onto Boro Street, and I can lose them in the slums. Once there, escaping will be easy!"
But six hundred meters... Six. Hundred. Meters.
The distance itself wasn't much, but he'd already run several kilometers, injured, malnourished. This last stretch was the straw that broke the camel's back.
"I can't... I'll have to use plan B."
Pain gnawed at his nerves, his pace slowing, the footsteps behind him growing louder. The expected fear didn't come.
No, not "didn't come," but "hadn't yet."
Before fear could take hold, he felt pressure on his shoulder, then a sharp pain in his ankle. He tumbled forward.
"Cough..." A short, pained cough was stifled as two knees pressed into his back.
Two men pinned his arms, two more held his legs, forcing him onto the cold stone pavement. Muddy grime oozed from the cracks between the stones.
"With that pretty face, you're the famous vigilante?" the man with the pistol asked, circling him with amusement.
"Hah! Kid, what were you thinking? Playing 'vigilante' in a small town like Faliro and thinking you're hot stuff? Trying the same trick in Attica—ptooey! This place doesn't need a half-grown kid playing hero. Hand it over!"
Kosma remained silent, his jaw clenched.
"Tough guy, huh? Beat him!"
The moment they released him, Kosma flicked his wrist. A spherical smoke grenade slid from a hidden pocket in his sleeve. He hooked his finger through the ring, pulled the pin, and tossed it into the air.
The short-fused grenade exploded, acrid smoke filling the air.
One man, relying on memory, kicked where Kosma had been, missing completely.
Before he could retract his leg, a sharp pain shot through his wrist.
First the kicking leg, then the standing one. In an instant, Kosma severed his attacker's Achilles tendons.
The teenager sprang up, pinning the man to the ground...
Thud... Thud... Thud... Blood splattered onto Kosma's hands and face, the warm, sticky wetness jolting him awake—the close combat he'd been avoiding had begun.
Without hesitation, he slashed the man's throat before dashing out of the smoke, his figure melting into the approaching darkness.
In the narrow alley, hearing no pursuit, Kosma finally relaxed.
As his breath hitched, the adrenaline faded, replaced by the throbbing pain in his knuckles, the burning in his lungs, and the coldness in his wound.
"Not far from the hideout... I'll rest here for a bit..."
He leaned back weakly against a wall.
"Wait! Why is the wall warm?!"
Kosma spun around in terror, locking eyes with a pair of silver-gray ones.
Before his mind could process, his body reacted—the bloody knife in his hand arced through the air, aimed at his assailant's abdomen.
Just as the tip was about to connect, he hesitated.
"No! He might not be an enemy!"
Kosma watched, incredulous, as the tip of his knife snapped off, bouncing twice on the ground.
Then, a shadow fell over him, a large hand reaching towards him.
He wanted to fight back, but didn't know how, or perhaps it was already too late...
But then, a comforting weight settled on his shoulder. The hand had simply patted him.