Chapter 2 - A Knock in the Dark
The sixth night was the coldest,
a bitter wind rattling the single-pane window of the apartment.
Tristan sat in the dark,
his hunger a sharp,
hollow ache in his stomach.
He had supplies,
cans of soup and dry crackers Knox had left,
but the effort to move,
to pretend even in private that he couldn't walk,
was exhausting.
He heard a sound in the hallway,
a light,
hesitant tapping.
It wasn't the rhythmic knock of Knox,
nor was it the heavy boots of a debt collector.
It was soft,
almost shy.
Tristan didn't move,
his eyes narrowing as he stared at the wooden door.
"Hello?"
a voice whispered,
muffled by the wood.
It was a woman's voice,
young,
strained with a fatigue that sounded like his own.
"I... I heard you coughing,"
she continued,
her voice trembling slightly.
"I made some extra porridge,
and I thought... maybe you were hungry."
Tristan remained silent,
his heart hammering against his ribs.
Kindness was a foreign currency in his world,
usually followed by a betrayal or a bill.
"I'm leaving it by the door,"
she said,
the sound of a ceramic bowl touching the floor echoing in the quiet.
"My name is Elara. I live in 4B."
He heard her footsteps retreat,
the sound of her door opening and closing.
He waited for five minutes,
listening for any lingering breath,
any sign of a trap.
Finally,
he wheeled himself forward,
his movements slow and calculated.
He unlatched the lock,
the metal screeching in the silence.
He opened the door just a crack.
There,
on the stained carpet,
sat a simple white bowl.
Steam rose from it in thin,
wispy curls,
carrying the scent of toasted grains and a hint of honey.
It was the humblest meal he had ever seen,
a far cry from the five-course dinners of his past life.
He reached down,
his fingers trembling as they touched the warmth of the ceramic.
He pulled the bowl inside and closed the door,
locking it with a heavy thud.
He sat in his wheelchair,
the bowl in his lap,
the heat seeping through his trousers and into his numb legs.
He took a spoonful,
the taste simple,
honest,
and overwhelmingly warm.
It felt like the first real thing he had touched in weeks.
He looked around his barren room,
the golden light of his former life fading into a distant memory.
Who was this girl,
Elara,
who gave food to a stranger in a place where people usually took everything?
He didn't want her kindness.
He didn't want to owe anyone anything.
But as he finished the porridge,
scraping the bottom of the bowl,
he felt a flicker of something other than hate.
It was curiosity.
A dangerous emotion for a dead man.
He set the bowl on the table,
staring at it as if it were a ticking bomb.
In the room next door,
he heard the low sound of a radio,
a soft melody that reminded him of things he had tried to bury.
He was Tristan Wolfe,
a man of iron and blood.
He shouldn't be moved by a bowl of rice and water.
Yet,
for the first time since the bullet hit his shoulder,
the ice in his chest felt a little less solid.
He looked at the door,
wondering what Elara looked like,
wondering why she bothered with a crippled man who had nothing to give.
He wouldn't thank her.
He wouldn't talk to her.
But he would remember the taste of the honey.
He leaned back and closed his eyes,
the warmth of the meal spreading through him,
granting him the first few hours of peaceful sleep he had known in months.
The war for Chicago was still coming,
May you like
but tonight,
the King was fed.
