The streets of Hartford, late at night, storming away from a bar. Away from the booze, the drunks, the memories.
His hands shoved deep in his pockets, he hunches over in his leather jacket, clenching teeth that yearn to chatter. Weak snowflakes batted away by his eyelashes, and he roughly swipes at his eyes to clear the remnant ice crystals.
He kicks at the slush and it soaks through his worn, beaten shoes, up the legs of his jeans. His hair is damp with melted snow.
It figures, he thinks, shaking his head. Just freakin' figures.
He's alone, his footsteps muffled in the snow. One flickering streetlight shows the empty sidewalks, the pristine layer of snow hugging the street.
Marching determinedly on, he leaves the jurisdiction of the lone streetlight. It melts into the distance behind him and he watches the world go dark.
No moon tonight, no stars. This power grid is out, no light reflects on the clouds. A faint luminescence comes from the slushy ground, overshadowed by ominous edifices propped shakily along the streets. Rickety streetlights, full of dents and scrapes.
He counts his steps, distracting himself. Steady rhythm, like a song, and he is engrossed, not paying attention.
"Hey." A menacing growl, a sharp pull at his elbow. He stumbles, his count is lost. His back slams into the brick wall of an alley, a huge forearm crushing his chest.
"Give me your money," the man snarls, teeth bared like an overgrown wolf. His pack lays in wait behind him, ready for orders.
"Don't have any," he mutters, pushes the guy away, moves out from the wall.
Thump. Back against the wall, breathless, icy steel against his throat. "Are you stupid? Think we'll let you get away that easy?"
Warm blood clings delicately to the edge of the blade as it's pulled away. He repeats himself, voice a little less sure. "I don't have any money."
He's pinned against the wall, air rushing from his lungs as the man leans in harder. Two others hold his arms as he struggles.
He hears the rapid-fire clickclickclick of metal zipper teeth. "Well, I can take this, for starters." They shove him around until he is out of the jacket, stumbling at their feet.
A cackling laugh and he's pulled up by the collar of his only button-up shirt. A tall man grabs his arms, twists them behind his back. He struggles, and the guy jerks his arm, hard. CRACK. Dislocated. Or broken. Either way, useless.
He considers screaming, but who would hear? And what does it matter? They'll take his coat. His wallet is empty after two beers. No credit cards. His shoes are threadbare, his shirt old and stained. He has nothing of value, save a paperback copy of his own book, a two dollar value. So what?
He goes still as the knife man steps forward. He sees his eyes reflecting in the silver of the blade, wide, waiting, hopeless.
The knife edges under the top button of his shirt. He hears the thread sever, the soft tap of the button as it falls to the ground. Another button, another, another until they're gone, and the knife is laid gently against his exposed chest.
"Are you ready to die?" the knife man whispers, eyes wild.
He shakes his head, and the knife man punches him smoothly.
"Careful," the man taunts. "I've killed for much less."
He feels himself shiver, but he won't speak. If he screams, he's dead, no question. They'll shut him up as quickly as possible.
His skin bends under the tip of the blade, then gives away, a little bit of blood seeping from the cut.
"Beautiful," the knife man whispers.
Again, deeper this time, and he gasps before he can stop himself. Blood drips from the knife, into a puddle of melted snow. Slow, steady, like seconds ticking by.
"Why won't you say anything?" the knife man growls.
He stays silent, listening to the beat of blood hitting the ground.
"C'mon, boss," a man whined. "He ain't got nothin'."
"But he's seen my face," the knife man murmured. "And there's only one cure for that."
The frozen metal screams in, twisting in his stomach, ripping apart his flesh. His breath whooshes out in a low groan as he tries to pull away from the knife.
The knife man holds the handle tight, shoving it up an inch, then two, against his ribs.
Crack. The cartilage split. Ribs splinter. His mouth works, but there is no sound, only blood oozing slowly, leaving its metallic twang.
Bright light passing over him. This is it, he thinks. The end of the line. The light has come for him, and he'll be gone.
It disappears, and his arms are free. He sinks to the ground, hands floating effortlessly up to the handle of the blade.
He's soaked through, with blood or water he can't tell, everything is so very cold…his hands slip on the knife and he looks at them, the dark coating. A slow waterfall of dark liquid trails from his lip as he tries to speak.
"Oh my God," she gasps. "Logan, call 911!" she screams over her shoulder.
Her hands are everywhere, pressing the hole in his stomach, waving around as she looks for something to make the blood stop, on his cheeks as she forces their eyes to meet. "Don't die. You can't die now. Just hold on, please, please just hold on."
Her face, so beautiful, like an angel and he wonders if he's dead yet because if this is heaven, it's awfully dark. But she's so blurry, and she's shaking, her musical voice fragmented with sobs. She's pressing her hands against his stomach, and God, that hurts so bad. She swipes her hair from her eyes, and a streak of perfect scarlet marks her cheek like war paint.
"Don't die, don't die, don't die," she cries. "I love you, please you can't die."
His eyes find hers again. He's slipping away, he can tell, it's all so blurry and dark. He's going to die in a dark alley, an unfamiliar city, in the arms of the girl he loves, and he's never even really told her.
"Rory," he chokes out, bubbles of blood obscuring it, but still she seems to understand. He feels it then, that chilling force, and he tries to rush the words. "Rory, I lo–"
The words die on his lips as Death's cold hand wraps around his soul. And there will be no bright light. Only the empty lifeless darkness.