Chan and Felix

Night in this city wasn't just a time of day. It was a living being, clad in the velvet of darkness and embroidered with beads of neon lights. But here, in a back alley, where the advertising lights didn't reach, a different kind of night reigned—thick, sticky, smelling of wet asphalt and metal.

In the dim light, two figures were visible against a graffiti-covered wall. Chan leaned against the bricks, his black shirt open, and a damp, even darker stain appeared on the dark fabric near his stomach. He was breathing heavily and evenly, as if concentrating on each breath.

Another man squatted nearby. Felix clutched his side, short, ragged breaths escaping through clenched teeth. His graceful features were contorted in a grimace of pain, but it betrayed not weakness, but a furious reluctance to submit to his own body.