2024 - France

In the dimly lit pub, Ayaz sits slouched in a corner booth, staring blankly into the amber liquid of his pint. His two friends, Louis and Francois, are deep in conversation, their words growing heated as they discuss Francois’s abusive stepfather. Their voices are loud enough to catch Ayaz’s ear, but he’s not listening. His mind is somewhere else—somewhere far from the grime of this Parisian dive, far from the company of his mortal friends.

It’s been years since Druig. Yet the pain of his absence lingers in Ayaz’s chest, as if it had only just happened. The frost-hearted—that’s what Druig used to call him, with that sly smile, knowing better than anyone the fire that truly raged inside Ayaz. The memory twists the knife deeper. His heart clenches, and even the alcohol can’t numb the ache. The man who made immortality bearable is gone, and for Ayaz, it feels like a winter that will never end.

Francois’s voice cuts through his thoughts. “One of these days, I’m gonna smash his face in,” he growls, his hands clenched into fists on the table. Ayaz doesn’t look up, but he catches the sharp edge in his friend’s tone.

“Are you mental?” Louis retorts, glancing nervously around the room. “He’ll get that lot to deal with you, and you’ll be dead before you know it.” Without thinking, Louis gestures towards a group of gang members at a nearby table. The leader, a hulking man with a scowl as permanent as the scars on his face, notices the gesture immediately.

“What you saying, loser?” the gang leader barks, rising from his seat with a famous grimace that promises trouble. “Think you can chat shit about us and we won’t do nothing?”

Francois, either brave or stupid, meets the man’s gaze with a defiant sneer. “Pretty much, yeah.”

Ayaz watches the exchange unfold, his mind still clouded by memories of Druig. He takes a slow sip of his drink, feeling the cold liquid slide down his throat. Let them fight, let them tear each other apart, he thinks bitterly. None of it matters. Nothing matters anymore.

The gang leader looms over Francois, towering above him. He’s twice the size of Francois, and Louis, sitting next to him, looks like he’s about to faint.

“Leave it, dude,” Louis mumbles, tugging at Francois’s sleeve. “Let’s just go. They’re not worth it.”

Francois remains seated, glaring at the gang leader with reckless defiance. There’s a part of Ayaz that admires his friend’s boldness, even if it’s misplaced. Stupid, but brave. A little like Druig. Ayaz’s chest tightens at the thought.

The gang leader grabs Francois by the collar, pulling him out of his chair. His fist is raised, ready to deliver a blow that could end the fight before it begins, when Ayaz finally intervenes. He stands slowly, flashing a disarming smile that’s equal parts charm and danger.

“Easy there, pote,” Ayaz says, his voice smooth and teasing. “I apologize for my lads’ wild behavior. They’re a bit low on manners, I admit. Let them slip just this once, yeah?”

The gang leader pauses, his fist still hovering in the air. Something in Ayaz’s tone, in the casual confidence that radiates off of him, makes the larger man hesitate. Slowly, he releases Francois, muttering under his breath. “Just this time.”

Ayaz gives a small nod, gesturing for his friends to follow as he heads for the door. As he passes the gang leader, he bumps his shoulder intentionally, leaning in close to whisper seductively, “Just this time.”

The gang leader stiffens, but says nothing. Ayaz keeps walking, Louis and Francois following behind, trying to look as though they haven’t just narrowly avoided a fight. Once they’re outside, Francois breaks the silence.

“What the hell was that?” he demands, still bristling from the confrontation.

Ayaz smirks, running a hand through his golden blond hair. “Just using my charms.”

“We got out, that’s all that matters,” Louis says quickly, pulling up his hood against the cold. His hands are still shaking from the adrenaline, but he’s too relieved to care.

Ayaz lingers behind them, watching as his two mortal friends begin to walk away. They have no idea who he really is—what he really is. To them, he’s just another guy, a drifter who keeps them company. They don’t know about his powers, about his past. They don’t know about Druig.

He sighs, feeling the familiar weight of loneliness settle over him. Even among friends, he’s alone.

“Why are you walking?” Ayaz calls after them, stopping by a parked car. “It’s freezing.”

Louis and Francois turn to look at him, confused. Ayaz produces a set of car keys, twirling them on his finger with a mischievous grin.

“Whose car is that?” Louis asks, suspicion creeping into his voice.

Ayaz gestures back toward the pub. “Guess.”

Francois’s face breaks into a grin. “Shit, son!”

The three of them pile into the car, their laughter filling the cold night air as Ayaz starts the engine. The moment the car roars to life, the gang bursts out of the pub, shouting after them. “You’re fucking dead!” the leader yells, his face red with rage.

Ayaz smirks, throwing the gang a rude hand gesture as he floors the gas pedal. The car speeds down the narrow streets of Paris, the city lights blurring past them.

“Floor it, Ayaz!” Francois shouts, laughing. “This is fucking fun!”

“They’re going to kill us,” Louis mutters, gripping his seat for dear life as Ayaz weaves in and out of traffic with reckless abandon.

Ayaz glances in the rearview mirror, noticing the flashing lights of a police car behind them. “Merde!,” he mutters.

“Did you have more than two pints?” Louis asks, panic rising in his voice.

Ayaz doesn’t answer. He slams the car into reverse, gunning it down a side street. The police car follows, but Ayaz is too fast, too unpredictable. He turns sharply into a narrow alley, knowing full well that the cop car won’t be able to follow.

“Where the hell are you going?” Louis yells, his knuckles white as he grips the dashboard.

“Relax. Feds can’t get down here,” Ayaz replies with a grin. He’s right. The police car slows, unable to fit through the alley.

Francois and Louis laugh hysterically as Ayaz backs out of the alley onto another street, a wide grin on his face. But then, out of nowhere, a fox darts across the road. Ayaz swerves to avoid it, losing control of the car. It hurtles toward the pavement, slamming into a lamp post.

Smoke pours from under the hood as the first police car pulls onto the street, sirens blaring. The airbag has inflated, pinning Ayaz to his seat. He struggles to get his seatbelt undone, cursing under his breath.

“Dickhead!” Louis shouts, rubbing his forehead where it smacked against the dashboard.

“Foxes are vermin!” Francois exclaims. “You should’ve just run it over!”

Ayaz’s seatbelt is jammed, and he can hear a second police car approaching. His golden eyes begin to glow faintly as his frustration builds. “I should’ve done a lot of things,” he mutters. “I'll sort this out. Get out!”

Francois, ever defiant, shakes his head. "They’ll put your arse in jail."

Ayaz’s lips curl into a cocky smirk, the recklessness lighting his gaze now. "I’d like to see them try." His voice is low, a daring challenge that none of them understand.

Louis, with his usual nervousness, frowns, then pats Ayaz’s shoulder. “Careful there,” he mumbles before grabbing Francois’s arm. “Come on.”

Francois hesitates, eyes darting between the cops and Ayaz, but when Ayaz’s golden eyes flare brighter—almost unnaturally so—he knows better than to argue. Together, they bolt from the wreckage, sprinting down the street.

Ayaz watches them go for a split second, then clenches his jaw. His heart still aches—every moment without Druig is a fresh stab of loneliness—but there’s no time to drown in that. Survival.

He slams his foot down on the accelerator, the car screeching violently as it jerks forward, smashing into the police car head-on. The officers barely have time to react as the impact sends the hood crumpling and glass shattering. Smoke fills the air.

With a flicker of dark grey smoke, Ayaz teleports, leaving the wrecked scene behind, and the police are left standing by their totaled car, baffled by the lack of any traceable suspect.