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Chapter 2: A New Home
In a world that took everything from them, the only thing they could hold onto—was each other.
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The car pulled to a stop on the edge of a cracked pavement, its engine sputtering one last breath before falling silent. Dust swirled lazily in the golden light of the afternoon sun. Through the smudged window, Azrael could make out the silhouette of a building that looked more like a forgotten institution than a sanctuary.
He opened the door slowly, stepping out into the dry air. The building loomed ahead—Horizon Shelter, read the faded letters above the gate. Its walls were tall and gray, scarred by time and weather, yet standing firm like a survivor of its own.
Just like us, Azrael thought, narrowing his eyes.
Worn, but not broken.
Veyron stepped out next, slamming the door shut with a loud thunk. He didn't look around. His jaw was clenched, arms folded tightly across his chest like a shield. Anger swirled behind his eyes, barely contained.
Behind them, Elara hesitated. Her small fingers clutched Azrael's sleeve as she peeked from behind his arm. Her eyes were wide, unsure.
"So this is it," Azrael muttered under his breath. "Horizon Shelter."
Home, the word echoed like a joke in his mind. He didn't laugh.
Children's voices echoed from the courtyard—laughter, footsteps, bouncing balls—but it all slowed when they noticed the new arrivals. Dozens of eyes turned. Some curious. Some wary. A few indifferent.
A woman emerged from the entrance. Tall and stern-looking, with sharp cheekbones and gray hair tied in a tight bun. She walked with purpose. Her presence commanded silence—but not fear. Something else.
"Welcome to Horizon Shelter," she said, her voice steady. "I'm Miss Lydia. The head caretaker here."
Elara flinched, clutching tighter. Her voice was barely a whisper.
"Promise no one will hurt us?"
Miss Lydia paused. Her sharp eyes softened as she knelt down, meeting Elara at eye level.
"I promise," she said gently. "No one here will hurt you."
Elara hesitated, then gave a small nod. She didn't fully believe it—but she wanted to.
Azrael studied the woman carefully. She didn't speak like someone putting on an act. But trust wasn't something he gave out like candy.
Veyron scoffed. "We don't need pity."
Miss Lydia raised an eyebrow. "Good. Because we don't give it."
That caught him off guard. His mouth opened, then closed again.
Azrael almost smiled. She's not the usual kind.
Miss Lydia rose. "You'll eat with the others, share rooms, go to school, and help out when needed. This place has rules. But more than that—it's a family. You give respect, and you'll get it back."
Azrael nodded once. Elara, timid, mirrored him. Veyron didn't respond—but he didn't walk away either.
One step at a time, Azrael thought, glancing at his brother.
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The Dining Hall
Long wooden tables stretched across the large room, their surfaces scratched and nicked by years of elbows and meals. Plates clattered, voices buzzed—but all of it stopped the moment Miss Lydia spoke.
"Everyone, meet Azrael, Veyron, and Elara. They'll be staying with us from now on."
Silence, then whispers. Curious eyes turned toward them.
A boy with calm gray eyes stood up. He looked about twelve, with an easy smile that didn't feel forced.
"I'm Ryan," he said. "You're safe here. If anyone says otherwise, they'll deal with me."
A girl next to him, short black hair and a mischievous grin, waved. "I'm Maya. You guys look tough. That's good—we need more of that around here."
Then came a shy boy, holding a thick book close to his chest like a shield. "I'm Noah… I can help you with school stuff. If you want."
Azrael nodded politely. Elara gave a small, grateful smile.
Veyron said nothing.
But not everyone was welcoming.
At the back, leaning against a table with arms crossed and an arrogant smirk, stood a boy with dark eyes and sharper words.
"Marcus," someone whispered.
He scoffed, eyes narrow. "So these are the 'survivors' everyone's talking about?"
The two boys flanking him—Jaden, taller with messy hair, and Troy, stockier with a perpetual sneer—snickered.
"They don't look like much," Jaden muttered.
Veyron's fists clenched. He took a step forward.
"Say that again," he growled.
Azrael placed a hand on his shoulder. Not hard, but firm. A silent warning.
Marcus laughed. "Yeah, listen to your babysitter."
Ryan stepped forward, his voice even. "Back off, Marcus. Not today."
Marcus held his gaze for a moment, then turned with a shrug. "We'll see how long they last here."
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That Night
The room was small. Three single beds, an old dresser, faded wallpaper with peeling corners. It didn't smell bad—just... stale. Forgotten.
Veyron paced back and forth like a lion in a cage.
"I hate this place," he hissed. "I hate those guys."
Azrael sat on the edge of the bed, his gaze fixed on the floor. "Fighting them won't change anything."
Veyron spun around. "Then what will?! Just letting them push us around?! We should've fought back!"
His voice cracked. Elara flinched.
Azrael stood and walked over to her, kneeling. "It's okay," he whispered. "We're okay."
He gently stroked her hair. She leaned into him, silent but comforted.
Veyron sat down hard on the bed, fists clenched. "Smart won't fix anything. Smart won't bring them back."
Azrael's eyes flickered. For a brief moment, his composure faltered. The grief behind his silence surfaced.
"I know," he said quietly.
They didn't talk much after that. But Elara curled up between the boys that night, and for the first time in days—maybe weeks—they slept without tears.
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Days Later: The Courtyard
Sunlight spilled over the cracked pavement. Kids played soccer, laughed, skipped rope.
Then came the shadow.
Marcus.
He strolled up with his usual entourage and smug grin.
"Hey, survivors! Let's see if you're as tough as they say!"
Jaden shoved Veyron.
That was a mistake.
Veyron's fist connected with Jaden's nose in a blur. Blood. Dirt. Silence.
Troy lunged, roaring.
Azrael didn't think. His body moved on instinct.
He caught Troy's wrist mid-swing, twisted. Troy yelped and hit the ground, clutching his arm.
Marcus blinked. Too fast.
He rushed Azrael, aiming a punch.
Azrael sidestepped. In one fluid motion, he swept Marcus's legs. The older boy hit the ground with a loud thud.
Azrael stood over him, calm, unmoving.
"Stay down."
Silence stretched like a drawn bowstring. Kids stared. No one spoke.
Then someone clapped.
It was Maya.
Soon, a few others joined in.
Marcus scowled, eyes full of hate—but he didn't get up right away.
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That Night: The Rooftop
The stars stretched endlessly above, cold and distant.
Azrael sat on the rooftop, knees drawn to his chest, eyes scanning constellations he couldn't name.
That fight… My body moved before I even thought. Like I've done it before.
But how?
Footsteps approached.
Veyron sat beside him, arms resting on his knees.
"I don't care what it is," he muttered. "One day, I'll make those terrorists pay."
Azrael didn't look at him. "We both will."
The night was silent but heavy. Not with fear. Not with anger.
With purpose.
They sat together, unmoving. Two shadows beneath a quiet sky. Two brothers, bound by pain. By blood. And by something even deeper.
A history they had yet to remember.
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To be Continue…