11. A Dish Served Cold
A Dish Served Cold
Nichole
The moment my feet hit the pavement, I know something is wrong.
The air is thick—too thick—clinging to my skin like smoke, pressing down on my chest with a weight I can’t shake. The dim glow of streetlights flickers weakly against the darkness, casting long, twisted shadows across the cracked sidewalk.
I glance around, my pulse already quickening.
A narrow, empty street stretches before me. The few buildings lining the road are worn-down, forgotten, their neon signs flickering like dying embers. The only sound is the faint hum of a distant car engine, low and restless.
A man steps out of a small convenience store across the street, the glass door swinging shut behind him with a dull chime.
I recognize him immediately. He’s the same man who killed Damian’s parents.
He’s older, mid-forties maybe, with slumped shoulders and a sluggish gait.
He carries a brown paper bag, his grip lazy, his posture careless.
I wouldn’t look twice at the man leaving the convenience store—except for the fact that someone else is watching him.
A shadow moves behind him, silent, deliberate.
Not rushed. Not reckless. Precise. My heart clenches as I track the figure’s movements, every step calculated, every shift of his body controlled.
He stays just out of reach, keeping a measured distance, his small frame moving with the kind of patience that only a predator has.
Then he steps into the glow of the nearest streetlight—and I stop breathing.
Damian.
Not the man I know now. Not the one with power, the presence of a king who commands the underworld with a mere look. This is him at thirteen and he is hunting.
His hands are stuffed into the pockets of an oversized hoodie, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold. But it’s his face that sends a chill down my spine. Blank. Empty. Unreadable.
Except for his eyes.
They are sharp. Focused. Full of intent.
A slow, uneasy feeling slithers through my veins, my stomach twisting in response. I don’t know exactly what I’ve stepped into, but I know one thing for certain.
Someone is going to die tonight.
The world around me flickers.
For a split second, I feel weightless—like I’m being yanked through time itself. My stomach twists, the air shifts, and before I can even blink, the dimly lit street is gone.
I land with a quiet gasp, my feet stumbling against the uneven pavement.
It’s darker here.
The suffocating weight of the night presses in from all sides, damp alley walls slick with condensation. The air reeks of cigarettes, rotting trash, and something sharp—gun oil.
A low voice murmurs ahead of me.
I turn—and my breath catches.
Damian stands a few feet away, his small frame tense but composed. The faint glow of a flickering streetlamp casts jagged shadows across his face, making him look older than thirteen.
In front of him, a man leans lazily against the alley wall. He’s tall and wiry, his face unshaven, his leather jacket worn at the seams. His eyes flick over Damian with amusement, as if he’s looking at a kid playing dress-up.
But then—the gun.
It gleams in the dim light, the metal catching on the orange glow of the streetlamp. The man holds it carelessly, like it’s nothing. Like it’s not a weapon that could change the course of a boy’s entire life.
Damian doesn’t hesitate.
He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a wad of crumpled bills. It’s not neat, not clean—just scraps of money, a mix of small bills and loose change. Money that took time to gather. Money he was saving for this.
The man raises a brow, his smirk widening as he takes the cash.
“Kid like you, getting into real business, huh?” He snickers, thumbing through the bills like he’s already thinking about how he’ll spend them. “This ain’t a toy, boy. You sure about this?”
Damian doesn’t even blink.
“Just give me the damn gun.”
His voice is steady. Too steady. There’s no uncertainty. No hesitation. And that terrifies me more than anything else.
I swallow hard, my fingers twitching at my sides. I want to reach for him, to stop him, to scream at him that he doesn’t have to do this—
But I can’t. I’m a spectator. A ghost in this nightmare. And no matter how badly I want to change this moment, to pull him away before it’s too late—I can’t stop what’s already been set in motion.
The alley vanishes.
The world shifts violently, twisting like a camera lens being refocused too fast. The scent of damp brick and gun oil disappears, replaced by something else entirely.
Cigarettes. Cheap beer. Wet pavement.
I barely have time to steady myself before the neon lights flicker into view, their colors bleeding into the rain-slicked streets. The rhythmic drip, drip, drip of water echoes through the alleyway, pooling in shallow puddles along the cracked sidewalk.
Then—laughter.
My head snaps toward the source.
The same man from before stumbles out of a neon-lit bar, his posture loose, his footsteps sloppy. He clutches a cigarette between his fingers, the ember flaring red as he takes a drag, completely oblivious.
He doesn’t know he’s being hunted.
A shiver crawls down my spine because I know what’s coming next.
I see him.
Young Damian.
He stands near the entrance of a rundown apartment complex, partially hidden beneath the dim glow of a streetlamp. His hoodie is pulled low, his face cast in shadow, but his stance is rigid, waiting.
He’s waiting for his moment.
I don’t move. I don’t breathe.
The man stumbles toward the stairs, his fingers fumbling in his pocket—probably looking for his keys, a cigarette, something meaningless.
And then—
Damian moves. He strikes fast, brutal, efficient.
The gun in his hand cracks against the back of the man’s skull with a sickening thud. The man staggers forward, his body lurching like a puppet with cut strings.
A strangled curse escapes his lips as he stumbles against the steps, hands shooting up to clutch the back of his head.
Nichole’s breath catches.
Because this is it. This is the moment where Damian makes his choice. And there’s no turning back.
The man whirls around, groaning, one hand clutching the back of his head where Damian struck him. His eyes are wild, unfocused, his face twisted with confusion and irritation.
“What the fuck—?” he slurs, blinking through the daze.
Damian steps into the dim streetlight, his silhouette sharp against the rain-slicked pavement. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t hesitate.
He just stares. Stone-cold. Unmoving. His face is completely unreadable, a mask of quiet, lethal rage.
But the man—he doesn’t recognize him. He blinks a few times, squinting through the haze of alcohol and pain. He doesn’t know who Damian is.
I feel the shift in Damian’s body, the way his muscles coil tighter, his grip on the gun unwavering. That only makes him angrier.
“You don’t even remember, do you?” His voice is low, controlled. Deadly.
The man scowls, rubbing his temple. "What the hell are you talking about, kid?"
Damian takes a single step closer. His presence alone is suffocating.
“You killed them.” His voice doesn’t rise, doesn’t crack. It’s steady, chillingly calm.
"And you don’t even fucking remember."
The man stiffens. His brows knit together, confusion flashing across his face—then something else. Unease.
He tries to laugh it off. “Kid, I don’t know what the hell you’re—”
Then he sees it. The way Damian’s fingers tighten on the gun. The way his entire body is locked, shoulders rigid, stance unshakable.
The way his eyes burn like embers in the darkness and realization crashes down on him. His bloodshot eyes widen.
“Shit… wait—” He stumbles back a step, hands lifting, palms out. "I-I didn’t know. I was just—"
Damian doesn’t move.
The man swallows hard, panicked now. “It was an accident! A robbery gone wrong, I didn’t mean—”
Damian’s shoulders tremble.
It’s subtle, almost imperceptible beneath the weight of his fury, but I see it. I see the tightness in his jaw, the way his fingers twitch against the grip of the gun, how his breath shudders through clenched teeth.
There are tears in his eyes.
But his face remains stone-cold.
Unwavering. Unforgiving.
The man sees it too.
And that’s when the fear really sets in.
He drops to his knees, hands flying up in surrender, his entire body collapsing into sheer desperation.
"Please," he gasps, his voice shaking now. His chest rises and falls too fast, panic clawing its way up his throat. "I’ve got a family now. I—I got a kid—"
Damian exhales shakily. His grip on the gun doesn’t falter, doesn’t loosen.
His fingers twitch once more. He lifts his free hand and wipes his tears away. The moment stretches, lingers. Then, in a voice so steady it sends a chill straight to my bones—
“So did I.”
And he pulls the trigger. A single gunshot splits the night. The crack of it is sharp, deafening, final.
The man jerks backward, his body slamming against the pavement. His mouth parts in a silent gasp before his limbs go limp, his eyes dulling.
Blood spills, pooling beneath him, staining the cracks in the concrete.
My stomach twists violently. I stumble back, my hand flying to my mouth, my heart slamming against my ribs. Oh my God.
Silence crushes the alley. No voices. No sirens. Nothing but the distant drip of rain and the metallic scent of death.
Damian doesn’t move. He just stares. At the body. At the blood. At what he’s done and for the first time since entering this nightmare, I don’t know if I recognize him anymore.
I want to go to him.
I want to reach out, touch his shoulder, pull him away from the sight of the body lying at his feet. I want to tell him this doesn’t have to be who he is.
But I hesitate.
Because the boy standing before me—the one gripping a gun with blood on his hands—isn’t the Damian I know.
This is a boy drowning in grief, hardened by loss, shaped by a world that never gave him a chance.
This isn’t just vengeance.
This is a moment that will define him forever.
He isn’t moving.