The Assassin's Ghosts

Chapter 11: An Old Enemy

A/n: Y'all I'm actually excited to publish this chapter cuz like why do I love trauma so much? ENJOY!

When night fell, and each exhausted member of the team had gone to bed, Kyros forced himself off of the couch. His body still stung from his injuries, but the fast-working healing salve had fixed him up a bit. Most of the blood had been cleaned off of him, and all of his open wounds had been bandaged properly, so as long as he kept a cane for extra support, Kyros was quite functional.

Sneaking out of the safehouse, Kyros shut the front door soundlessly and stood on the porch for a moment, soaking up the moonlight. It gave him a small sense of relief, for some strange reason. After he had taken a breath of the cool night air, Kyros adjusted his coat and crept away from the safehouse. He had to clear his head, so he had decided to walk around the empty streets of the city. Was it the safest thing to do after he had just gotten his ass beaten by a gang? No. But when has he ever done the safe thing?

As Kyros limped through the streets, he basked in the silence. He passed the occasional pub, which laughter, shouting, and obnoxious singing filtered out of, but other than that, the streets were quite serene. He stayed in the shadows, just enjoying the stars and the moon, the chill of the clear night air, the sound of silence.

He passed another bar, and when he started to make his way away from it, the door opened and the sounds of happily drunk people got louder. A man was thrown onto the cracking cobblestone streets somewhere behind Kyros.

"Don't come back, ya shite!" someone shouted before closing the door. A scuffle sounded behind Kyros. Curious about what sorry sob got himself tossed out of a pub, Kyros turned around to look at the drunken idiot. In the dim lighting, Kyros made out the figure of a man who was a few inches shorter than Kyros himself. The man wore a bowler hat and a ratty tweed vest and trousers. The man stood up and brushed himself off, catching Kyros' eye.

"What're ya lookin' at?" the man slurred. Kyros felt an untraceable discomfort at the voice of the stranger. He sounded familiar, somehow. In the dim light of the street lamp that they stood under, the drunkard took a closer look at Kyros. Then he paused, raising a quaking hand to point at Kyros. "Killian? Boy, is that you?"

Kyros felt his body stiffen. Understanding clicked in his mind. Killian. That was his name. His real name. When he had run away from home, Kyros had changed everything about himself that he possibly could, including his name. He had hoped to make it impossible for his father to track him down.

"It is you. I'd recognise that hideous scar anywhere. Look at you, covered in blood and bruises. Leaning on a cane. You're still just as weak as you were when I last saw you, when you ran away like a coward. You still runnin'?"

Kyros couldn't speak, couldn't open his mouth. He had known that if he ever saw his father again, he would be afraid, but he hadn't expected it to be this difficult. Just hearing his old name had been enough to freeze his entire body. He felt locked in place. He hadn't been this scared when he was being beaten up. No one but his father could make him feel this powerless.

Kyros stopped himself, not letting his mind go into full-panic mode. He had escaped back when he was only fifteen. He had fixed himself up, made something for himself where many people would have seen nothing of value, and he had made himself powerful. He had made himself powerful so that he never again had to feel as powerless as he had throughout his entire childhood.

"No, I'm not," Kyros said, his voice sounding calm, despite the fact that everything inside him was screaming. "The only coward here is you."

"You really going to talk to me like that, Boy? Looks like you've forgotten your place."

Kyros reached under his coat and pulled out a revolver, pointing it directly at his father. He couldn't help but smirk at the fear that flashed through the grown man's eyes. The old man may be drunk, but even a wasted fool could remember what a gun looked like when it was aimed at your face.

"You don't have control anymore, old man. I bet you missed having someone to hurt. I bet it hurt even more when all those girls you were sleeping with realised what a worthless piece of shit you are. It's a cowardly thing to do, to beat women and children. You do it because you don't have the power to hurt anyone else. But I do. I have the power to hurt whoever I want. And right now, that just so happens to be you," Kyros smirked, cocking the gun. He limped up to his father, who was visibly shaking. "I could kill you... but I won't. Because I want you to live in fear. I don't need to kill you, because you aren't worth it. But if I ever see you again –even if I just accidentally see you on the streets– I will not let you see another day on this earth."

Raising the gun above his head, Kyros slammed the barrel down on his father's head, effectively knocking the man unconscious. For a little extra satisfaction, Kyros kicked the sleeping man hard in the ribs before deciding to go back to the safehouse. Kyros had just defeated his biggest oppressor, the very reason that Kyros second-guessed every decision he made. By defeating his father, Kyros had given himself the idea he needed to stop The Queen.