? Between Fear and Grace ?
The next morning air was crisp as Alex made his way through the tangled streets, threading the narrow boundary where the city center met the noble sector.
Noor's advice from yesterday echoed through his mind.
"Hobbies? I did nothing but hiking and other activities in the nature back home. It's different here."
"But... I have something in mind. Not a hobby really..."
Steady and focused, Alex pressed forward until he reached the building—a narrow, stately townhouse nestled between brick facades, its polished brass plaque catching the morning light: Doctor Kranz, Physician & Surgeon.
The windows were tall and clean, curtains drawn back to reveal shelves lined with leather-bound volumes and carefully arranged medical instruments. The heavy oak door was solid, with an intricate brass handle worn smooth from years of use.
Alex pushed the door open. “Hello? Anybody here?”
Dr. Kranz appeared from the bathroom, wiping his hands on a towel. “Good morning, son. Can I help you?”
Alex hesitated. “Good morning, doctor. Well...”
Kranz raised an eyebrow. “Are you hurt? Some kids’ gangs have been causing trouble lately.”
“No, no, I’m fine... I’d like to help.”
Kranz blinked in surprise. “Help?”
“Yes. I’m... the son of a doctor. I’ve learned a few things, but now I’m away from him and want to keep learning. Would that be possible?”
Kranz looked thoughtful. “Besides patients, I usually only see university students volunteering here... But you... you’re twelve?”
Alex scratched the back of his head, smiling shyly. “Just turned thirteen. And I won’t ask for any money, I already work.”
“You don't go to school ?”
Alex looked down, hesitated, then said, barely audible, “No.”
Kranz smiled kindly. “Tell me, son—do you want to be a doctor?”
“I... don’t know yet. But I want to feel close to my father by doing what he does.”
Kranz’s expression softened. “Is he alright?”
Alex quickly shook his head. “Yes! Yes! Sorry—I didn’t mean to worry you. He’s not dead or anything. He’s just away.”
“Can I come by every Sunday to learn? I’ll do whatever you say—even just watching.”
Kranz chuckled. “I could use some company... Nurses come and go. I have an assistant but Sunday is a break for her. A kid like you? That’d be great.”
Alex beamed. “Thank you! Thank you so much, doctor!”
“I have a few appointments later, and more patients might arrive without notice. I’ll lead the way, alright?”
“Yes, sir.”
The Wolves' hideout lay beneath the city, tucked behind a rusted grate in a forgotten stretch of tunnel. The steps down were damp and uneven, the walls lined with cracked tiles that curled like broken teeth.
Mira moved through the low corridor in silence. Overhead, dead wires sagged beside hissing pipes. The air was thick with rust and stone — the scent of something long buried.
She stepped into the main chamber and saw them.
Pinch. Tonno. Lino.
“Morning, guys,” she said, smirking faintly.
Lino barely glanced up. “Hey,” he muttered.
Tonno offered a small nod. “Good morning, Mira.”
Pinch, by contrast, sprang to his feet at once. His eyes widened at the sight of her, and before she could say another word, he ran to her and threw his arms around her waist.
“Mira!” he yelled.
She caught him instinctively, one hand settling on the back of his head. He trembled faintly.
“Where are the others?” she asked, scanning the station. Her voice had shifted — calmer, flatter. “Zack? Jax? Vito?”
No one answered at first.
Tonno’s gaze dropped to the floor. Pinch clung tighter. Lino exhaled through his nose, slow and bitter.
And Mira knew.
She didn’t need them to speak. The silence was answer enough.
Her spine straightened; her jaw set.
“Not again…” she whispered, more to herself than to them.
Just before noon, Dr. Kranz was examining an elderly man in the modest consultation room. He lifted the thin, brass-rimmed stethoscope—an early, leather-wrapped binaural model—and pressed its cold diaphragm against the man’s chest. His fingers found the patient’s wrist, feeling the steady pulse.
“Any discomfort in your chest or difficulty breathing?” Kranz asked quietly.
The old man shook his head slowly, then cleared his throat.
“If you don’t mind, doctor, could you prepare something for the aching in my knees? The pain’s been growing worse these past weeks.”
Kranz nodded thoughtfully.
“I’ll mix a mild tincture from willow bark and arnica. It should ease the inflammation.”
Alex sat nearby on a wooden stool, notebook in hand, his eyes carefully observing the doctor’s every motion—how he adjusted the ear tubes of the stethoscope, the way he jotted notes with a fountain pen on parchment.
When the patient shuffled out, Alex broke the silence, pen poised.
“Doctor, I noticed you check the radial pulse first before using the stethoscope. Is it to detect irregularities early?”
Kranz smiled, pleased by the question.
“Exactly. The pulse gives a quick sense of rhythm and strength. If irregularities appear, it helps focus my listening for murmurs or other signs.”
Alex nodded thoughtfully, making notes with the dip pen. “And when listening, you pay close attention to abnormal heart sounds that might indicate valve problems?”
Kranz’s eyes twinkled behind round spectacles.
“You’ve been well taught. You’re quiet and focused. You let me lead with the patient, and you absorb everything without interruption.”
Alex smiled faintly.
“My father used to lightly tap my head if I interrupted him during consultations.”
Kranz raised an eyebrow.
“Tapped you? How so?”
Alex smiled wryly.
“A light punch, enough to remember.”
Kranz reached out and gently tapped Alex’s head.
“Sounds like a proper mentor. Did that remind you of him?”
Alex laughed softly, warmth spreading through him.
“It did. More than I thought.”
Kranz nodded kindly.
“If you ever feel lost or distracted, speak up. I want you to learn properly.”
The door burst open with a sudden clang.
“Doctor!” a rough voice yelled.
Alex’s head snapped up. A man hurried in, supporting a boy who looked barely fifteen, but whose face and arms were swollen, bruised, beaten nearly to a pulp. The boy’s lip quivered, eyes red, and tears streaked through grime and blood.
Kranz appeared calmly from his office.
“What happened?”
The father’s voice was urgent but controlled.
“He got jumped near the slums, doctor. Please, he’s hurt bad.”
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Kranz glanced at the clock and frowned slightly.
“I have a critical patient arriving any moment. Let me take a quick look first. Then we’ll attend to him properly.”
The man’s gaze flickered between urgency and understanding.
“Alright, doctor. Please, be quick.”
The boy whimpered, clutching his father’s sleeve.
Kranz caught the boy’s tears and exchanged a look with Alex, who stood quietly watching.
“I can take a look, doctor,” Alex said suddenly, stepping forward.
The father eyed him skeptically.
“You’re just a kid.”
Alex nodded, voice steady.
“I know enough first aid to help with bruises and bandages.”
The father hesitated, then nodded.
Kranz smiled faintly and handed Alex the first aid kit.
“Counting on you, son.”
Alex knelt beside the boy, calm and focused. He gently touched the swollen bruises, checking carefully for signs of deeper injury. His hands were steady, moving with practiced care despite his youth.
“Hey,” Alex said softly, looking into the boy’s tearful eyes. “What’s your name?”
“Tommy,” the boy sniffled.
“Tommy, these bruises are painful, but nothing’s broken. You’re going to be okay. I’m going to clean these up and put on some bandages, alright? You’re safe here.”
Tommy’s shoulders relaxed a little, his sobs quieting.
The second patient arrived then, and Kranz excused himself, but before he left he glanced back at Alex.
Minutes later, Kranz returned, eyes scanning the boy and the work Alex had done.
“You missed one small bruise on the forearm here,” Kranz said gently, pointing. “But otherwise, well done.”
Alex’s face flushed. “I’m sorry I missed it, doctor.”
Kranz shook his head. “Don’t worry. It’s hard for someone learning. You did everything else correctly.”
Turning to the boy, Kranz’s tone sharpened. “Who did this to you?”
Tommy’s face crumpled again. “Those kids. The ones by the slums, near the Red Corner. They swarmed me, took everything I had.”
“Those damn Wolves,” the father growled.
Alex froze remembering the name. He’d crossed them. He remembered them — the big Tonno, the crafty Lino, the tiny pickpocket Pinch… and Mira.
“I… I know them,” Alex said.
The father straightened. “You do? Then tell me — where they live, who their parents are—anything.”
Kranz looked to Alex.
Alex hesitated. “I’m sorry. I just met them once. I don’t know where they live. But… I don’t think this was them.”
Then it hit him.
Zack — the brutal one who had nearly disabled Dante.
Tommy sniffled, wiping his nose. “They got more kids now. Said they were gonna take over the whole corner.”
Alex glanced down, troubled. He remembered how Mira fought — fair, focused, like it meant something. This didn’t feel like her.
In the slums, not far from the Red Corner district, a shoe cleaner, barely sixteen, trembled as he faced down the army of kids before him, looking forward to a fourth or fifth beating for today to make a name for themselves.
“Hey, come on! Half is too much! Please, I need the money.” His voice cracked with desperation as he clutched the small handful of coins like a lifeline.
Vito, leading the pack, leaned in slowly, a cruel smile curling his lips. “Protection money.”
“Protection from who? I can take care of myself! I didn’t ask for protection!” the shoe cleaner yelled, frustration boiling over.
Jax, standing beside Vito, shrugged lazily. “Hmm... Protection from us?”
The teenager’s jaw clenched tight, fury flashing in his eyes. But his instincts screamed obedience. With a reluctant sigh, he surrendered half his coins to Vito.
“At your service, monsieur,” Vito said, voice dripping with mock politeness.
At the rear, Zack watched the scene unfold, eyes narrowing as he glared at the bystanders and passersby. None dared to intervene. The silence of the crowd—cowering, looking away—fueled his sense of power. This was survival. Every beating, every show of dominance from the new Wolves gang, now fused with the Red Corner’s ruthless force, was a message: this was how the slums of the city bent to them.
And Zack reveled in it.
Dr. Kranz was closing his small clinic for the day, the soft evening light filtering through the windows. He looked at Alex with a gentle smile.
“You’re one interesting kid, Alex. Are you sure you don’t want to work with me?” he said playfully.
Alex chuckled softly. “I would love to, doctor, but this is sort of… a volunteering thing or an activity for me. But believe me, I want to be here every day.”
He paused, looking down briefly. “Still… I can’t let the old man Harris alone. And I need money to survive.”
Kranz laughed quietly, shaking his head. “I’m joking, son. I would never employ you. But yes, please come whenever you can. That book I lent you—it's about more advanced first aid. Read it, and I can help you understand it better.”
“Thank you so much, doctor,” Alex said earnestly.
Kranz reached out and patted Alex gently on the head, smiling warmly.
Suddenly, Alex surprised him by hugging him gently. Kranz was taken aback for a moment, but he felt the warmth of the boy’s trust growing between them.
“I got you, son. You’re not alone.” Kranz said softly.
Alex nodded, releasing the hug.
“And stay away from the streets,” Kranz warned, still smiling.
“Alright. I’ll see you next week, doctor,” Alex said confidently.
They waved goodbye as Alex stepped out, unaware that soon their paths would cross again—under much darker circumstances.
"It’s the simple things that will keep me grounded."
"My parents memories. Mr. Harris. Dante. Noor. And now—Doctor Kranz."
"Each of them anchors me to something honest. Something real."
"There’s good in this city. I’ve seen it. I’m part of it now."
"And I won’t forget that."
"I won’t break."
"I won’t let hunger or loneliness twist my thoughts."
"I won’t admire killers just because they speak well or dress like kings."
"This is my battle."
"To stay whole."
"To stay me."
"Even here."
Alex had barely stepped back into the city center when he caught a figure approaching—familiar in gait, but frayed at the edges. Hands jammed into her coat pockets, boots scraping the stone with restless force, her flat cap pulled low. Cursing under her breath.
Mira.
She walked like someone looking for a wall to punch. Trouble clung to her like smoke.
Alex hesitated, then called out, “Hey.”
She looked up—only briefly—and recognition sparked behind her eyes. Then her expression hardened.
“Oh. The punch-pulling moron.”
Alex scratched the back of his head with a sheepish smile. “That’s my name now?”
“I don’t know your name.” Mira said, deadpan.
“Ah, right. It’s Alex. You?”
“Mira.”
He nodded. There it was, finally. A name to the face. But names weren’t what haunted him. It was the boy from earlier—the bruises, the fear, the words.
“A kid came into the clinic today,” Alex said. “Said he got attacked by the Wolves gang.”
Mira's gaze slid away. The tension in her jaw tightened like rope pulled taut.
“I know it wasn’t you,” Alex added softly.
She blinked, turning to look at him, raising an eyebrow. “Huh?”
“You fought me and Dante fair, right? Two against two. You didn’t play dirty. That’s not you.”
A beat passed. Mira studied him in silence—this boy who looked people in the eye when he spoke, too soft for this city, too clean in his belief.
“You and your freckled friend,” she said flatly. “Stay away from our sector.”
Alex tilted his head. “Is it that bad?”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“I can help.”
She shook her head, her voice low but firm. “Trust me. They won’t care about your manners.”
“You pull your punch with them…” she paused, meeting his gaze, “and they’ll leave you in the gutter.”
Alex heard it. Not a warning. A certainty. He had fought her—he knew the strength behind her words. She didn’t posture.
“I just don’t think you should take it all on yourself,” he said.
Mira's eyes narrowed, but not in anger. More like pain pressed under pride. “I am responsible for them,” she said. “So I’ll fix it.”
Alex didn’t push. She wouldn’t let him. Pride wrapped around her like armor, but not vanity.
She walked past him, slow and burning, her eyes scanning shadows as if ghosts mocked her from the alley walls. Alex watched her go, heart tight with a feeling he couldn’t name.
This city was bleeding. And they were just kids trying to hold a stitch in place.
Later that night, in a quiet graveyard on the city’s edge, a boy stood beside a headstone marked:
Dina Velano.
1900-1907
He was no older than fourteen—wiry, sharp-shouldered, with the same slight frame as boys like Alex or Dante. His coat was thin and a size too large, the cuffs worn to threads, the hem patched more than once.
A canvas satchel lay at his feet—faded, dust-covered, its strap knotted where it had split. He had the look of someone freshly arrived, the smell of train soot still clinging to him, the stiffness of long travel in his bones.
He moved with care, kneeling to water the flowers planted near the grave. His hands brushed the stone clean with a cloth from his pocket, as if he'd done this many times. Then he bowed his head, raising his hands into a quiet prayer.
The moonlight caught the scars across his knuckles. Not the kind you get from accidents—these were hardened lines from fists that had fought, more than once or twice.
From the entrance, two older teens—fifteen, maybe sixteen—slipped through the gate. One nudged the other as they spotted the boy.
“Hey, think he’s got anything?”
“In a graveyard, man? That’s cold.”
“He’s alone. Looks like he’s leaving or just came. Worth a shot.”
The two started toward him, casual but alert. Their voices low. Their posture shifts. That half-crouch of kids who’ve mugged before.
“Hey,” one called out, voice casual but edged. “You alright, man? Bit late to be hanging around graves.”
“Yeah,” said the other, letting a little smugness bleed in. “We don’t want trouble. Just asking if you can, you know... help us out.”
The boy heard them. Slowly, he turned.
Dark hair, thick and unruly, parted naturally and curling just enough to give him an untamed look. His eyes locked on the two teens—not wide with fear, not challenging either. Just steady. Cold, unreadable.
The muggers hesitated.
“What’s his problem?” the taller one muttered, annoyed.
The shorter boy’s eyes widened. Recognition flashed across his face. A bead of sweat rolled down his cheek.
“Hey,” he whispered. “Let’s go.”
“What? Why?”
“Not this one.”
“Who even is he?”
The kid didn’t answer right away. He kept staring. Then, low under his breath:
“That’s Leo."
"The Wolves gang's true leader.”
A moment of dead silence.
The taller boy’s expression shifted. Disbelief. Then fear. “The Leo?”
“I thought he wasn’t in the city anymore,” the first boy said. “looks like... he’s back.”
The taller boy looked again at Leo. Same size as them, sure, smaller by a smidge even. But something about him...
They turned to leave—quietly, quickly. But they hadn’t gone five steps before a voice called out behind them.
“Hey.”
They froze. Leo’s voice wasn’t loud. But it carried. Smooth. Steady. Heavy as iron.
They turned, stiff. Leo walked toward them—not charging, not tense. Just moving. Relaxed. Calm.
“Don’t pull that stunt in a graveyard again.” His eyes pinned them like nails. “Have some respect for the dead.”
The boys stumbled backward. “Y-yeah… we’re sorry.”
They took off, not daring to look back while Leo stopped at the gate, watching them go, disappointed. The city was still full of strays, muggers, and desperate kids clawing for something. And he still hated it.
Leo. I've been teasing his character and his importance in three chapters very subtly.
a follow to know readers out there are checking out this.
Thank you for reading :)
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