Violent Violet
All the colors and vibrating lines seethed in Randia’s vision, an overwhelming tide of hues and pulses. His stomach churned. Every sharp clang of laughter, every muted sob, every fleeting shadow of thought battered against him like a storm of glass shards. Figures flickered incomplete — sketches without edges, faces blurred into faceless masks, emotions bleeding into one another like watercolor spilled in rain.
Yet despite the chaos, Randia pressed on. He narrowed his focus, sifted meticulously for anomalies. In a city freshly brushed by festival joy — lanterns strung like fireflies and streets still warm with revelry — ruffled souls stood stark against the calm like ink blots on white parchment.
Even then, after scouring a kilometer radius, no trace of Lisabelle. His jaw tightened. He leapt to another rooftop, and then another, methodical and tireless. Eventually, his relentless pursuit carried him, almost without realization, into a dilapidated quarter of the city where cobblestones cracked underfoot and shadows stretched unnaturally long. The air soured here — every alley reeked of fermented sweat, cheap wine, and sharper things: metal, desperation, decay. Murky souls drifted thick as smog, worn thin and frayed around the edges. It was grim — but the darker the mire, the clearer the ripple of something out of place.
Nearly half an hour later, Randia’s breath was shallow, his temples pounding from the strain. But finally — finally — a cluster of readings sparked into clarity. Multiple figures clumped unnaturally close in a single place. Height matched. His pulse kicked up.
As he closed in, a scream cracked through the alleyways — sharp as snapped bone.
“Come on! Get up! This is what you wanted, right?!”
Randia’s boots skidded as he rounded the corner into a narrow, grim alleyway — and froze.
This… was not what he’d expected.
He had anticipated tears, perhaps a trembling girl lost and cornered. Not this.
Not a girl streaked in blood splatters — fists raised, breath ragged, crimson freckles drying across her torn blouse and bruised knuckles. Around her lay six teenage boys crumpled like discarded marionettes, their limbs splayed at odd angles. Three others lingered farther back, rigid with dread. Even now, the girl slammed an unconscious boy’s skull into the stone wall, over and over, with merciless rhythm.
Crack ...! Crack ...! Crack ...!
Her left eye was grotesquely swollen — puffed so large it seemed a sodden loaf of bread was wedged into her socket. Cuts and bruises marred every inch of her skin; her blouse hung ragged, collar torn clean down to her elbow, skirt dirtied and rent. She was battered — but the men around her were wrecked.
"D-Damn you, Lisabelle! You know you won't get away with this, you leftover scum! My father will-!"
"Try me, Lucas. I'll do the same to your father, and your mother, and your sister, and your baby brother. After that, I'll go unearth your grandfather and take a leak on his bones."
“Tsk—! You! What did I pay you for?! Get her! Fuck her up!”
Lucas, the blonde young man in a purple tunic pushed his last two men forward. The two men reluctantly stepped forward as they were drenched in sweat. The moment they saw what happened to his fellow muscles for hire from up close, one of them decided to take out his blackjack knife. This surprises everyone, even Lucas himself.
"A-Are you guys nuts?! I'm not paying you for a murder!"
“A-Are you nuts?!” Lucas shrieked, voice cracking. “I didn’t pay you for murder!”
“Shut it, dammit! I’m not ending up like them!” the man barked, panic stripping civility from his words. The other thug, emboldened or terrified in equal measure, drew his blade as well — their gazes fixing murderously on Lisabelle.
“You’re both fucking crazy!” Lucas blanched, stumbling backwards. “Do what you want — We don't know each other!" With that, he bolted, boots splashing through stagnant puddles as he vanished down the alley.
Back in the narrow, suffocating gloom, Lisabelle exhaled through gritted teeth. Slowly, grimly, she crouched and snatched up two empty beer bottles from the grime-caked ground. They reeked sharply of piss and rot — but her grip tightened regardless.
The two armed men charged.
With impeccable timing, Lisabelle hurled both bottles — their glass trajectories crossing perfectly mid-air. They collided directly in front of her attackers’ faces — an explosion of jagged shards and splinters erupted outward.
Now that Lisabelle only needs to focus on one of them, she grabs another bottle by the neck and smacks it to the wall, shattering it apart. She now has sharp parts on her bottle in an effort to slightly make it a fair fight.
The fight had knotted into a savage deadlock. Lisabelle ducked, weaved, but her swollen left eye left a blind hollow that the thug exploited mercilessly. His blade kissed her skin again and again — shallow slices first, then deeper, angrier cuts that carved burning lines down her arms and flanks.
It couldn’t last. After thirty brutal seconds of circling steel and shattered glass, Lisabelle staggered back, breath rasping.
"Tsk . . ."
The thug grinned, teeth yellow and bared like a snarling cur.
“Hah! Not so cocky now, are you? Come on — I’ll cut off your limbs and rape you half-dead.”
Lisabelle panted hard, her lips peeling back. “Shut your trap. Your mouth stinks.”
Her eyes narrowed. A decision hardened there — reckless, final. One gamble, all in. She dashed forward, sudden and sharp as a thrown dagger.
“You’re dead!” the thug roared, lunging with his knife, straight for her chest.
Lisabelle didn’t flinch. She twisted her stance and slammed her left shoulder into the knife — driving the blade into her own flesh by sheer force.
“—Ghkk!”
White-hot pain blazed through every tendon. The knife punched deep, sinking to the hilt. But Lisabelle’s hand snapped forward regardless. She clutched the thug’s belt in a steel grip — anchoring him in place — and swung the broken bottle with every ounce of remaining strength, aiming straight for his solar plexus.
It would have killed him cleanly.
"Enough."
The voice cut clean through the chaos. Randia’s shadow fell over them as he stepped between the two. His hand snapped forward and caught Lisabelle’s wrist mid-swing. Even he staggered slightly from the surprising force behind her strike — the bottle’s jagged edge grazed the man’s skin, drawing a thin red line.
Randia’s other hand shot out and crushed the thug’s wrist with bone-snapping pressure. The knife clattered to the cobbles as the man howled. In one fluid motion, Randia shoved Lisabelle back — gently but firmly — and she crumpled onto the ground, breath ragged.
“B-Bastard! Who are you?!” the thug spat, stumbling back, clutching his mangled hand.
Randia didn’t bother answering. His fists blurred — a sharp jab into the man’s liver, followed by a precise strike to the base of his skull. The thug dropped instantly, crumpling like wet cloth.
Without breaking stride, Randia turned to the second man — the one still keening softly, shards of glass embedded in his ruined eye. His breath hitched when Randia’s gaze pinned him down.
"You. Take care of this mess and forget about today. Don't even think of getting close to the girl ever again."
The henchman looked up — and froze. Under the dim alley light, Randia’s broad silhouette towered, sharp-lined and immovable. His cloak stirred faintly in the stagnant air, the outline of hard muscle shifting beneath. Something in his eyes — calm, calculating, remorseless — drained all fight from the man’s bones.
“Y-Yes, sir,” he stammered, nodding frantically. “Thank you — thank you for sparing me.”
Randia turned on his heel and strode back to Lisabelle. Up close, the full extent of her injuries made his jaw clench. Blood trickled sluggishly from her shoulder, her knuckles were flayed raw, and her breathing rattled unevenly in her chest. Every instinct screamed to get her out, bind her wounds, and ward her from further harm. He knelt — but before he could speak, Lisabelle’s arm jerked up.
The broken bottle pointed at him, wavering, but defiant.
“Hff… hff…” Her one good eye narrowed dangerously. “Damn it… you’re huge. Are you the boss? You want a piece of me too? Come on, let’s get this over with.”
Randia kept his voice even. “I came for your grandmother. Eleanor.”
Lisabelle froze for a heartbeat — then her features contorted, rage crackling through her like lightning snapping across dry brush.
“You what?”
Her snarl ripped raw from her throat. “You couldn’t take me down, so now you’re dragging her into this?! I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU!”
She launched herself at him, glass flashing wildly. Randia cursed inwardly — stupid, stupid phrasing — and ducked aside. Her swings were frantic but vicious, tearing at his coat and grazing his cheek. Blood welled on his hand where her teeth sank deep in a sudden bite.
“Lisabelle—Lisabelle, listen!” His voice stayed calm, even as he wrapped her wrists and locked them to his chest. “I said it wrong — I’m not your enemy. I’m here to bring you back to your grandmother.”
Her body strained violently for another breathless moment — then, slowly, slowly, the fight ebbed from her limbs. Her arms sagged. She trembled, her body hollowed of fury.
Quiet fell heavy.
Randia loosened his grip cautiously. Lisabelle sagged against him, her breath hitching. When she spoke, it was small and splintered — a child’s voice hidden inside a battle-hardened shell.
“Just… do whatever you want to me. But please… leave grandma alone. She’s all I have left.”
Her body shuddered once — then slackened completely. Her lashes fell shut. Randia’s fingertips brushed her matted hair, murmuring a soft incantation under his breath. The spell slid gently over her mind, lulling her into safe unconsciousness — the same way he had done with Viena.
Carefully, Randia gathered her into his arms. Her weight surprisingly quite heavier than he expected. Yet, without a backward glance, he turned from the alley and vanished into the dimming streets, his dark cloak trailing like a fading shadow.