Levi and Aziel

I wasn’t always the thing people whisper about with lowered voices. Once, I was small and fragile soft in the quiet way the world crushes first. Back when the streets felt too loud and my hands trembled more from fear than anger, he noticed me. Not to save me. Never that. He was my bully long before he was my partner, his words sharp, his shoves colder than the nights we slept outside. I hated him with the desperate intensity only lonely people understand, yet even pain meant I was seen. Then the old man gathered us like strays and fed us power disguised as mercy. I learned to endure. He learned to manipulate bending truth, shaping lies, pulling people toward his will. Loyalty was carved into him so young it became something like brainwashing. They favored him too, because he was blonde, obedient, beautiful in the way loyalty often is. He was always more flexible than me, willing to cross any line, willing to kill whoever stood in his way. While I struggled to survive, he built connections deep enough to summon an army without raising his voice. We became strong enough to rule, ruthless enough to kill, bound together by violence dressed up as family because our old man picked kids off the streets. Now they look at me like I’m the danger finally breaking loose not letting anyone brainwash me. Maybe innocence never disappears it rots into something hungrier. The blood calls louder each night, and in his eyes I see fear tangled with a softness he refuses to name. He told the old man I’m too unhinged, that I should be erased before I destroy everything. The old man agreed. Love has no place in cages like ours. So I ran before mercy became a blade, carrying the ghost of the gentle boy I used to be. Somewhere behind me stands the spoiled boy who once pushed me into the dirt, now powerful enough to bring the city to its knees yet still chained to a loyalty that was never truly his. And the cruelest truth is this: if he called my name softly… I might still turn back.