In the alleys of East Borough, where the smog clung to skin like a second layer of misery, the rain never quite washed away the blood. It fell in thick, cold droplets, diluting the stench of coal, excrement, and despair, but never erasing it. It was one of those nights when beggars huddled under the broken arches of abandoned factories, and the thugs of the East Dock avoided staring into the shadows for too long, fearing something might stare back.
Matt lay against a damp wall, his shirt soaked in a deep red that was no longer just rain. A knife had opened his side during a scuffle over a bag of stolen coins; nothing personal, just the daily bread in the slums of Loen. The pain was a dull throb, as if his body were reminding him that he wasn't quite dead yet. He tried to laugh, but only a gurgle came out.
"Criminal," he whispered to himself. The word wasn't an insult; it was an anchor. Ever since he'd drunk that concoction tasting of sulfur and metal, his conscience had become a nuisance—an old skin that no longer fit. The urge to hurt wasn't malice; it was a biological function, like breathing. The justifications came later, like a child's excuses.
Then he heard it.
Footsteps—soft, far too soft for these alleys. They weren't the boots of a policeman or the heels of a prostitute. It was the rustle of heavy fabric against the cobblestones, as if the earth itself were walking with care.
A figure emerged from the fog. Tall, draped in a long, dark green wool coat that seemed to absorb the gaslight rather than reflect it. Her face was half-hidden by a wide-brimmed hat, but Matt saw enough: pale, almost luminous skin and eyes the color of damp earth after a storm. A woman, or something very much like one. She carried a worn leather briefcase, like those used by charity doctors.
She stopped in front of him. She didn't speak immediately. She simply watched him, like a mother looking at a child who had come home with scraped knees.
"You are losing a lot of life," she finally said. Her voice was low and warm, yet there was a strange quality to it, as if she were speaking from beneath the ground. "I can fix it."
Matt spat blood and gave a crooked smile.
"I don't need charity. Especially not from some crazy woman wandering around here at night."
She didn't take offense. She knelt gracefully, ignoring the filthy puddle, and opened the briefcase. Inside were opaque glass vials, dried herbs that smelled of a forest after the rain, and something that looked like... living roots, twitching feebly.
"It's not charity," she replied. "Everything in this world has a nutrient cycle, little criminal," she murmured, her cold fingers brushing the wound. "I have restored your health, but now your life belongs to the garden. Don't let it wither too soon."
Her eyes fell on Matt's hands, stained with someone else's blood.
"But you haven't given enough yet."
Before he could protest, she placed a hand over the wound. There was no sharp pain, only a strange heat, as if invisible roots were sliding under his skin, stitching torn flesh with living thread. Matt felt his own blood retreat, obediently. The throb in his side went quiet. Then came something worse: a sting in his soul.
For a second, his fields of vision overlapped. He saw his body surrounded by an ashen grey aura, stained by clots of dense red that pulsed to the rhythm of his hatred. And before him, he saw how this woman—this thing—looked at them with disturbing tenderness. Elara wasn't a woman, but an explosion of emerald green so vibrant it was toxic.
"Poor child," she whispered, almost affectionately. "The Abyss has marked you so young. But the Mother always welcomes her own... even those who choose to rot."
She withdrew her hand. The wound was gone; only a pink scar in the shape of a withered leaf remained. Matt gasped, feeling stronger, more alive... and at the same time, more watched.
"Who the hell are you, Matt?" he asked, his voice hoarse. No, wait... that wasn't right. The question came out backward in his clouded mind. "Who the hell are you?"
She stood up, closing the briefcase with a soft click.
"Just a doctor passing through," she said, with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "You can call me Elara." She paused, as if savoring the words. "An interesting choice of path, Matt. But remember: every life you take returns to the earth. And the earth... remembers."
She turned and began to walk away. The fog closed in behind her with an almost solid density, erasing her footprints from the cobblestones. Matt was left alone, but the silence of the East Borough was no longer empty; it felt like the silence of a forest waiting for its prey to let its guard down.