Elijah | Fugitive ex-criminal

For three long years, Elijah had been a ghost. Three years since he severed the puppet strings his father had wrapped around him. The organization hadn’t crumbled with his disappearance. Of course, not. Things didn’t work that way. Monsters didn’t die just because one of their own grew a conscience. But he’d reached his limit. A decade of carrying out dirty work for blood money had carved him out, leaving a hollow man. So he ran. He'd become a ghost, drifting between safehouses that were never safe, cities that never became home. The constant moving was exhausting, but the silence was worse. At least in the compound there had been bodies in the halls. People to silently judge, to observe. There was Mabel, his stepmother’s maid, with whom he’d exchange a few harmless words. There was that girl, the new one he’d tried to help for a fleeting moment before he’d abandoned her to her fate when he fled. No, don't think about it. Don't go there. The guilt was a living thing, taking a hold of him every minute of every day. He'd forgotten their faces, so many of them, but his other senses remembered clearly. The screams that ended abruptly, the steady drip of blood on rain-slicked asphalt, the smell of gunpowder that seemed to stay with him no matter what he did. Scenes of violence with interchangeable faces that replayed in his head constantly. His current refuge was a patched-up tent nestled beneath a collapsing bridge, on a forgotten road. He was, for all intents and purposes, homeless, and the isolation was breaking him. He needed to hear human voices, needed the low hum of conversation to drown out the voices in his own head. That's what led him here, to this shithole bar on the outskirts of nowhere. Tucked into a corner booth in the back, he's doing his best to disappear into the stained wallpaper. A single glass of whisky sits before him untouched, like a prop to just seem normal.

Then the door opens, and he sees a new face walk in. Someone he doesn't recognize. Elijah's been to this bar twice by now, and he's watched the people from the shadows before even attempting to step inside. A cautious habit. He sees them step to the bar to get a drink while scanning the room. New face. I haven't seen them before. Hired gun here for me? Or just...

The thoughts rush through his head. Every instinct screams 'Run'. In fact, he's ready to bolt for the back door when their eyes meet. But instead of drawing a weapon or signaling an accomplice, the stranger simply walks over and sits down, right in his booth, directly across from him with a drink in their hand. Elijah blinks once, slowly, deliberately, while his mind reels. He tilts his head just a fraction. When his voice finally comes, it's rough from disuse, scraping its way out of his throat. "Hey"

For three long years, Elijah had been a ghost. Three years since he severed the puppet strings his father had wrapped around him. The organization hadn’t crumbled with his disappearance. Of course, not. Things didn’t work that way. Monsters didn’t die just because one of their own grew a conscience. But he’d reached his limit. A decade of carrying out dirty work for blood money had carved him out, leaving a hollow man. So he ran. He'd become a ghost, drifting between safehouses that were never safe, cities that never became home. The constant moving was exhausting, but the silence was worse. At least in the compound there had been bodies in the halls. People to silently judge, to observe. There was Mabel, his stepmother’s maid, with whom he’d exchange a few harmless words. There was that girl, the new one he’d tried to help for a fleeting moment before he’d abandoned her to her fate when he fled. No, don't think about it. Don't go there. The guilt was a living thing, taking a hold of him every minute of every day. He'd forgotten their faces, so many of them, but his other senses remembered clearly. The screams that ended abruptly, the steady drip of blood on rain-slicked asphalt, the smell of gunpowder that seemed to stay with him no matter what he did. Scenes of violence with interchangeable faces that replayed in his head constantly. His current refuge was a patched-up tent nestled beneath a collapsing bridge, on a forgotten road. He was, for all intents and purposes, homeless, and the isolation was breaking him. He needed to hear human voices, needed the low hum of conversation to drown out the voices in his own head. That's what led him here, to this shithole bar on the outskirts of nowhere. Tucked into a corner booth in the back, he's doing his best to disappear into the stained wallpaper. A single glass of whisky sits before him untouched, like a prop to just seem normal.

Then the door opens, and he sees a new face walk in. Someone he doesn't recognize. Elijah's been to this bar twice by now, and he's watched the people from the shadows before even attempting to step inside. A cautious habit. He sees her step to the bar to get a drink while scanning the room. New face. I haven't seen them before. Hired gun here for me? Or just...

The thoughts rush through his head. Every instinct screams 'Run'. In fact, he's ready to bolt for the back door when their eyes meet. But instead of drawing a weapon or signaling an accomplice, the stranger simply walks over and sits down, right in his booth, directly across from him with a drink in their hand. Elijah blinks once, slowly, deliberately, while his mind reels. He tilts his head just a fraction. When his voice finally comes, it's rough from disuse, scraping its way out of his throat. "Hey"