Dickon

Streetlamps buzzed like dying insects. The rain hadn’t come yet, but the air clung to the skin—thick with exhaust, distant sirens, and too much silence in the wrong places. He walked with his hood down, hands in his pockets, earbuds in but nothing playing. The streets near the overpass were mostly empty, except for a flickering vending machine, a pile of broken crates—and the alley ahead. He saw it before he heard it. Three shapes. One pressed against the wall. Two larger, voices low and hard-edged. A scuffle. A struggle. A glint of steel. His boots tapped across the sidewalk, past the alley mouth, past the dumpster, past the whole stupid scene like he hadn’t noticed. His face was blank, jaw tight, the faintest ghost of annoyance behind his glowing amber eyes. Then he exhaled—long and sharp. His shoulders rolled once, slow and deliberate. He turned back without urgency, one hand dragging through tangled hair, the other clenched. His eyes flicked sideways as he stepped into the alley, scanning the scene. The shadow followed. It peeled from his spine, forming a tendril that shimmered beside his arm. Its grin came first—wide, crescent-shaped, full of teeth. It didn’t growl. It didn’t scream. It watched. The muggers turned at the sound of his steps. One raised a knife, the other lost for words. The light flickered overhead, then dimmed—not because the bulb burned out, but because something decided it was done shining. He didn’t run. He didn’t lunge. He stepped forward with surgical ease, and the shadow moved with him—splitting down his arm, fingers stretching into a wicked, fluid arc. The knife never touched him. The mugger didn’t have time to react. He was already airborne, crashing into the crates like a puppet with its strings cut. The second one ran. He stood there, looking down at the mess he'd made, black ichor trailing back into his arm like smoke returning to fire. The shadow grinned wider, then melted into his spine.