Chapter 3 - The Far Away City...

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  Ima stumbled back behind the old shop, his legs giving out as he collapsed beside the well. His hands dug into his hair, his breath ragged and shallow.

  His mind replayed the scene over and over—the girl's desperate plea, the raw terror in her eyes, and then… nothing. Just fire and ash.

  His stomach twisted painfully. His hands clenched into fists, shaking.

  His chest felt tight. He wanted to scream, to throw up, to run—but there was nowhere to go. He buried his face in his hands, shaking violently.

  He could not bear the fact that he had done nothing. He wanted to save them and to lessen the weight of the guilt that was tearing him apart from inside.

  He got up and marched back into the streets, walking around aimlessly like a zombie.

  His mind was spinning, consumed by guilt and fear. The image of the girl turning to ash replayed over and over in his mind, a sickening loop he couldn't escape.

  Ima wandered the streets, his body moving on instinct while his mind remained trapped in the memory of burning flesh.

  The acrid stench clung to his nostrils, making him want to retch. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her terrified face, her outstretched hand, and then—nothing. Just ash.

  She had begged him to help. He had done nothing.

  He should have ran faster. He should have grabbed her and bolted. He should have—

  His stomach clenched painfully. There was no undoing it. No bringing her back. But the others were still alive. He had seen them—huddled together, bound, afraid.

  His fists clenched.

  If he left now, they’d all die. Just like her.

  A sick, heavy weight pressed down on his chest. He didn’t want to go back. He wanted to disappear, to curl up somewhere dark and cold and pretend none of this had happened

  His legs carried him against his better judgment, back towards the alley where the men had stood. His heartbeat pounded against his ribs as he peeked around the corner, keeping himself hidden. The two men were still there, speaking to a third—a wiry man with a hunched posture and a calculating stare.

  Ima’s breath hitched. His stomach twisted into knots.

  The shorter man glanced toward the alley. “Fine, we’ll take ‘em . Just make sure we get paid proper.”

  The wiry man and the tall man left. The short man turned toward the captives. The girls shrank back. Ima’s body tensed. He had to act now.

  He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his skin. Those girls needed to be saved. They were only being watched by a single man. He could do it. He thought since ultimately this was his only chance to do so.

  His eyes darted around, searching for a weapon—anything.

  A broken wooden beam, likely fallen from an abandoned cart, lay near the gutter. It was thick enough to swing with force, splintered at the edges but solid in his grip.

  Ima gripped the wooden beam tighter, his knuckles turning white. The midday sun bore down on the street, casting sharp shadows beneath the buildings. The alley wasn’t hidden in darkness—it was right there, in plain sight.

  People walked by, some glancing in the direction of the struggle, but their eyes slid away just as quickly. Others didn’t even look. Their faces set in expressions of forced ignorance. A group of men leaned against a storefront, deep in conversation, while a woman across the street adjusted the fruit stand she was tending to, never once pausing.

  He swallowed hard, the rough texture of the beam biting into his palms. If no one else would do something, then he would. He crept behind the man with silent footsteps

  This was it.

  He had no plan, only the fire burning in his chest and the weight of the wood in his hands. But he knew he had to do it.