The Night He Didn’t Look Away

The sky was bleeding gold and orange as seventeen-year-old Alex walked through the narrow streets, his gym bag slung across his shoulder. Sweat clung to his shirt from hours of training—jiu-jitsu, kickboxing, krav maga. The city buzzed with summer heat, but his focus was razor sharp. His body moved like a machine, precise and practiced.

He was headed home after his late session at the dojo. His legs ached in that good way, but something else gnawed at the edge of his awareness. A feeling. Like something unfinished.

His phone buzzed.
Mom: Dinner's ready, sweetie.
Marios: Don’t be late or I’m eating your burger.

He smiled faintly. Marios, his little brother, always waited for him.

Turning a corner, he passed shuttered shops and dim alleys. The main road was just ahead when—

A noise.

Quick. Sharp.
A stifled cry.

He stopped. Head tilted. Then he saw it.

Down the alley: a black van. Doors open. Two men—masks over their faces—grappling with a child. A boy, maybe eight, kicking and clawing in panic.

Alex dropped his bag.

He ran.

The first man turned too late—Alex slammed into him with full momentum, driving him to the ground. Elbow. Knee. Disable. Move.

The second attacker swung a knife—Alex blocked, twisted, countered with a brutal strike to the throat. The man dropped.

“Go!” Alex shouted to the child, who scrambled away, sobbing, into the street.

Victory flickered—

—then vanished.

A third man stepped from the shadows.
The cold steel of a baton cracked against the back of Alex’s skull.

He collapsed.

His last thought before the darkness swallowed him was of his little brother’s face.