Bloodlike God

Valeria Obscura never really slept; the city just tossed and turned in its endless fever, struggling to breathe under a thick, poisonous blanket of industrial smog. That night, the city’s breath was heavy in your lungs. A sticky, hot vapor rose from the asphalt, freshly soaked by acid rain. It carried the rotten smell of clogged canals, the sharp smell of ozone from frayed wires, and the faint scent of rotting food from the trash piles in every corner. The neon lights from broken billboards flickered at a broken rhythm, casting sick-looking reds, blues, and greens onto oily puddles, creating a twisted illusion of beauty over the real decay. The city's sounds were a harsh symphony: the constant hum of overloaded air conditioners, the rhythmic dripping from rusty fire escapes, and the distant echo of fights or laughter that both sounded equally desperate. In the heart of this concrete maze, the Orphis District lived like a wound that never healed. Here, cramped apartment buildings leaned on each other as if for support, their walls covered in graffiti and thick soot, silent witnesses to generations born and dead without ever seeing the real sun. Roman Valtérax felt all of it seeping into his bones, as cold and sharp as a piece of broken glass. From the seat of his beat-up scooter, a machine he bitterly called his “Iron Horse,” he was a nameless ghost gliding through the city’s sick veins. He ran a hand over his scooter's worn-out handlebars, feeling the familiar vibration of the engine in his palm. This scooter wasn't just a tool; it was the only constant in his life, his loyal partner on an endless journey from one point to another. His faded delivery jacket, which he had stitched up more times than he could count, felt like a second skin. On his back, the thermal backpack felt heavy, not just from its contents, but from the weight of hundreds of deliveries before it. He wasn’t a hero or a villain; he was just a delivery guy, bringing moments of happiness in styrofoam boxes to people whose faces he never remembered. This was his last delivery for the night. An expensive order, a synthetic steak, and a bottle of cheap wine for an address in the farthest apartment block, a building that stood like a tombstone in a graveyard of others. Ironic, he thought. People in Orphis were starving, but there was always someone who could afford a small luxury delivered to their steel-plated door. The city was full of contradictions like that. He parked his scooter at the mouth of a dark, forgotten alley. When he killed its coughing engine, the sudden silence felt more threatening than the usual traffic noise. The alley was narrow, squeezed between brick walls that seemed to swallow all light. He could feel the stares from the dark windows, the unseen eyes of residents who had learned that the best way to survive in Valeria was to see nothing, hear nothing, and say nothing. He was a student of that philosophy himself. Keep your head down, do the job, get paid, and repeat. Under his jacket, the scars on his back and arms itched, a raised map of a past he couldn't clearly remember. Only flashes: sterile white lights, the smell of antiseptic, a burning pain, and whispers of a potential hidden in his blood. The memories were like ghosts, too blurry to understand but too real to ignore. The scars were a constant reminder that he was a freak, the product of something that shouldn't exist. He was just about to lock his scooter’s handlebars when a sound broke the heavy silence. It wasn’t a loud yell, common in Orphis, nor the sound of breaking glass or a crash. It was a sharp, choked-off scream, the sound of someone fighting for air, cut off by a rough hand. The sound of a desperate struggle. Roman's first instinct was to ignore it. He had perfected that instinct over the years. In Orphis, helping someone was the fastest way to die. Still, his silver-gray eyes automatically lifted toward the source of the sound. At the end of the alley, under the blood-red glow of a grimy bar called "The Gutter," a jet-black sedan with no license plates was parked with its back door open. The car was an anomaly. Its paint was flawless, reflecting the broken lights like a black mirror. Its tires were clean, free of the Orphis mud that clung to everything else. Its presence in this rat's nest was as out of place as a diamond in a trash heap, a sign that a predator was nearby. Two men in sharp suits were struggling to force a young woman into the car. The woman fought back with surprising strength, her movements fast and skilled, not just blind panic. Her white silk dress, which looked completely out of place, was now stained with the alley's wet filth. Her silver-white hair flashed for a moment as she shook her head, refusing to give in. Her face wasn't clear, but Roman could see the silhouette of her resistance. Instantly, Roman froze. His tired brain screamed at him, ordering him to leave. This isn’t your business. Finish your delivery. Forget what you saw. Survive for tomorrow. He just wanted a quiet life in this rotting city. But something inside Roman refused to obey that survival logic. Maybe it was the way the woman fought, not with tears, but with a cold, focused anger that radiated from her every move. Or maybe, it was the sight of suited wolves preying on a lamb in the territory Roman called home. He was tired of the predators who came to Orphis to hunt as if the lives here were worthless. The dark violet streak in his black hair seemed to fade under the neon light, the shadows of his past feeling closer tonight. One of the men lost his patience. He snapped something in a low, harsh voice, then backhanded the woman across the face. The slap echoed, sharp and clear, in the alley's silence, followed by the thud of the woman’s head hitting the car door. And that’s when something inside Roman snapped. To hell with survival. To hell with being invisible. What was the point of surviving if you had to swallow the poison of your own cowardice every day? What was the point of a quiet life if it was bought by letting cruelty happen right in front of your eyes? The scars on his back burned, no longer itching, but blazing. The rage he had suppressed for so long, the rage born from labs and painful experiments, now surged to the surface. It was a cold, focused, and perfectly clear rage. He no longer thought about the consequences. He no longer weighed his chances. He just knew he wouldn't stand by anymore. With a fluid, certain motion, he twisted the key in his Iron Horse’s ignition. The engine roared to life, its deafening sound tearing through the alley's silence like ripping silk. The sound was a reckless declaration of war, a challenge from someone who was supposed to be unseen, unheard, and non-existent. Both men snapped their heads around, their faces showing a moment of shock before hardening into deadly annoyance. Their eyes met Roman's, a cold, fearless gaze that seemed completely wrong coming from a skinny delivery boy. In the puddle at his feet, the reflection of his face looked alien, his eyes glowing with a cold, gray light. In that split second, Roman Valtérax stopped being a ghost. He became a problem that needed to be solved. And he twisted the scooter's throttle all the way.