The floor was hard beneath him. Cold, uneven stone pressing into the shoulder he hadn't bothered to roll off of. The blanket wrapped around his body offered little warmth, and even less comfort. Sleep clung to him in ragged breaths, and he wasn't sure if he had ever truly drifted off. The bruises from yesterday ached, dull reminders of a world that didn't stop hurting when you closed your eyes.
Thud.
A dull knock. Not a knock, exactly—a thump. Against the door.
Vayle froze. His breath caught in his throat, and he lifted his head slightly from the floor, straining to listen.
Then came the groan.
A heavy, breathless mutter, slurred and wet. The sound of someone who had long since drowned their reason. Vayle's stomach turned to ice. He didn't need to see the figure to know who it was.
"Dad...?"
The word came out quieter than he meant it to.
There was another groan. Then something like laughter, low and broken.
"Vayyyyyle… 'zat you, boy? Hahh… open the damn door... yer old man's freezin' out here… got somethin' to drink…"
Vayle's hand reached instinctively toward the wooden counter. His fingers brushed the hilt of a small kitchen knife, and he pulled it close. His hands shook, the memory of other nights like this crawling over his skin like ants. Nights when his father's fists had been the punctuation to slurred accusations and the stink of rotgut.
There was silence.
Then—
BANG.
His father's forehead slammed against the door again, hard this time. The wood shuddered.
"Open it, you little shit!" the voice snapped into rage, vowels slurring like someone tearing cloth. "I know you're in there! You think I don't know!? You owe me, bastard boy, you owe me!"
Vayle's breath stuttered. He stood. Moved to the door. The knife trembled in his grip. His other hand hovered near the latch. There was nowhere to hide. If the neighbors heard, they wouldn't come. Not for him.
"Just get it over with," he whispered to himself.
He pulled the door open.
The man on the other side of it barely looked human.
Dirt caked his boots, his trousers stained with liquor and gods-knew-what else. His shirt was half torn, neck hanging off one side, revealing the blotchy red skin underneath. His eyes were bloodshot. Hair a knotted mess. And the stench—Vayle flinched from it, like the air itself had gone rancid.
"You look like shit," Vayle muttered, despite himself.
The man's eyes twitched. His hand shot out, and before Vayle could step back, grabbed him by the wrist.
He yanked him forward, the force knocking Vayle off balance. The knife clattered to the ground. The older man raised a fist.
Crack.
Vayle hit the floor. Pain exploded behind his eye. His father didn't stop. Another kick landed in his ribs. Another. The air left Vayle's lungs in a rasp.
"Think you're better than me, huh!? Little fuckin' rat, hidin' in here… where's the coin, huh? Where is it!?"
His father ripped the pouch from his belt. The silver clinked inside.
"Worked all day for that," Vayle hissed, curled on his side.
"Worked all day, huh? I raised your sorry ass. You don't earn shit without me, you little parasite."
He turned to leave, staggering toward the doorway.
That's when the pain twisted into something else.
Hatred.
It swelled in Vayle's gut, swirled behind his eyes, coiled in his bones.
His fingers tingled.
Then they burned.
He didn't scream, didn't even cry out—he just moved. Launched himself forward, a ragged growl tearing from his throat. His palm caught his father's back. Flames erupted, orange and white, blinding in the shadowed house. The smell of burning flesh hit first. Then the scream.
His father collapsed, convulsing.
"You think you deserve it!?" Vayle shouted, tears streaking his cheeks, but not from grief. "You spend it on drink and dice while I starve? I earned it! I earned every single copper!"
The man writhed on the ground. Tried to speak—but the flames crawled over his body like vines, smothering his voice in choking smoke. His arms twitched. Then fell still.
Vayle stood, panting. Flames guttered out on his palms. The room stank of death.
He stared at the body.
His lips parted to say something. Nothing came out.
He knelt, slowly, trembling. Looked at his hands. The skin was red. Not burnt. Just… red. Like the heat had come from within. He didn't understand it. Didn't want to, not now.
He backed away from the corpse.
"They'll come," he whispered. "The ones he owes."
They'd knock. No one would answer. They'd kick the door in, find the mess. Vayle knew what came next. Chains. Questions. Accusations.
He had to go. Now.
He grabbed the pouch. Slung it over his shoulder. One glance back. Just one.
Then he fled into the night.