"Spare change?"

From around a corner and past a homeless drunkard, John jogs a steady pace down a fairly empty sidewalk. Uncertain of the exacts of where he's going, all he knows is that time is not on his side— nor has it been all day. Off his street and onto Florence Street, this massive stretch of road is a straight shot to anywhere in the city's downtown area— and, perfect for wherever he needs to be. The time ticks towards 1am as John quickens his pace. The digital shine of the flip-phone upon his face glares those coordinates.

Eh... Coordinates. He should know how much I hate this kind of stuff.

The frustration being just as much with himself as it is towards the numbers lighting up his face. The cement claps of his work shoes echo throughout the eerily sparse crevasses and intersections of Florence as he rushes on by. Running between the dark and fluorescent light, the transition between the two hastens as the city light poles fall behind his fears. So much time had passed, the worrisome 'what-ifs' were impossible to ward away.

Intersection after intersection, John barrels on by struggling to understand the 'where' midst the neon night sky. Pass litterings of red solo cups and blankets of colorful confetti at every touristy stop; John closes onto the roadblocks he and Rayst encountered earlier in their night. The blocks were toppled and in-tatters by now, yet the out-cove—the crevasse—his coordinates gave lie just before the block's held line of defense.

Without crowds nearby to cloud the depth nor the city's bustling noises to distract from one's contemplations, the coordinates lead into something bigger than a simple crevasse of tiny shops. It's a public square. Albeit, one made by accident from the city's ordinances—old and new—and aging buildings haphazardly built around this space. John doesn't waste any more time with chic quips. As he makes his way into the shabby, festive-feeling square, the whispers of unknown origin tense him up. Clearly human sounds—their words nearly audible enough to understand—can be heard echoing throughout the connective alleyways and more desolate locations creaking beside the adult-oriented establishments in the square. A chill whispers up John's spine. The coordinates point here, but how does one find a single man amidst a series of alleyways; how does one find a needle in a haystack in the dark?

Tapping of shoes echo as they close into the square. Their murmurs and slack-jawed camaraderie becoming more audible, more nuanced with every clear infraction filling the ever lessening divide between them and this public square. John's spine-tingling chill claws and clamors as it spreads throughout his body. Their presences meet.

A group of, no more than, three or four shabbily dressed men exit out from one of the furtherest alleyways from the square's entrance. Obviously up to no good, they continue chatting amongst each other in delight.

"You'd think there'd be less this year, you know?"

"Meh. Loads of 'upstanding citizens' forget obvious things in the comforts of their 'fancy' office jobs. Alcohol is a very powerful depressant. You all would be best to know that."

"He's right, dog. Just look at how much we've scored so far tonight. Couple of wallets, some pumas, a nice cashmere coat— almost like a few G's alone in watches."

"Man, don't forget about these sweet pads!"

"Pads? Seriously, Adam, you took the bloody dude's elbow pads? That's goofy. You're goofy for that."

Their camaraderie swiftly comes to a sudden, tense silence as they pass by John. The four staring holes into him on their way. Evident as it may have been to connect those dots; John only offers up a meek smile, in opposition, as he sheepishly raises his hands by his side and moves out of their path. Moments of tense uncertainty—to be sure—but each make their own way through without incident before the opportunistic group resumes their giddy talks. Letting out only a sigh of relief, John makes his way to the alleyway the four had recently left.

The bloody-padless man lies beside the wet trash that decorated parts of the alleyway within. This man, this assailant, still remains out cold as a shadow of another visitor darkens his chilly, wrecked body. With clear signs of being moved, the mixture of smells, wetness, and looming shadows culminate into twitches of his eyelids. As the looming shadow grows in size, it's master speaks, "There you are!"

As John dashes down the damp, neon alleyway, the momentum of the run aids in his motion towards this beaten, former assailant. Swooping in one full arch, John pulls the guy up to his feet and moves the man's arm around his neck. Albeit being a struggle from the dead weight, it was enough to be able to anchor himself as support while dragging the guy out of the alleyway. The weight being strenuous and the drunken obstacles are plenty; clumps of rock extract and weak, malleable earthy material make the trek all the more grimy. As they exit the alleyway and re-enter the square, a mumbling can be heard from the person around John's neck.

"I saw it.. I was in there, he told me. How was it not him? Was I wrong? ...Can there be another Konstantine? Looks like him, talks like him, works like him. Is it possible, are they real? Does he have a doppelgä—"

"Roy! You're back to the land of the living yet?"

The inane ramblings cut short; the waking Roy wasn't something John had considered to be a possibility after seeing him in that alleyway. The blood and muck covering Roy's combative clothing, the limpness of his left arm, and the looseness of his swelling ankle; John had feared the worst. Yet, this mumbling brought a tear to John's eye. Maybe, something hasn't gone terribly sideways today.

While Roy seems unresponsive to John's words, the turning of his head to those words is enough of a good sign to move on towards something not as imperative. The speed of the two no quicker than a snail, this was perfect for what John wanted most with Roy: time.

As they make their way through the makeshift square, John can't help himself, "What were you mumbling about anyway? I could barely make a thing out." Playing it off as more of a light-hearted remark, John watches intently to every twitch upon Roy's face. Maybe something could explain this or the other mysteries Roy has given him since leaving nearly two years ago.

"Huh? What? Wher—Crap! Did I lose?", Roy fully awakens out of his violently-induced slumber, "Hey, you got the coordinates! How long did it take you this time?"

"Man, seriously? I'm struggling here! Lighten your load a bit, will ya'," retorting in the same huff as his strained breathes release into the empty air.

As Roy fidgets around, John's strained steps carry the both of them out onto the blocked off city street. Past the other unconscious citizens and away from the littered, closed establishments from the square, not even the four from before were left in sight nor sound. The man and his injured company stand alone amongst a city of loneliness.

Growing breathes draw from John's dry mouth. Exhaustion, stress, and sleep deprivation; the man that sought the lifestyle of a 'straggler' now stands in the middle of an empty street with his long lost 'Roy' bruised and beaten around his neck living anything but that peaceful, distant role. The weight harder to bear by the minute from thoughts that spur within. The dark circles around his eyes trying their best to hide the realization that his ignorant bliss seemed to be coming to an end. This all begging a question to an answer he'd forgotten to time: why?

He, unsure if this is something or a symptom of his lifestyle's ailments, pushes it back down to the bowels of his boney gut. His tangled paranoia evaporates as the peeps beside him grow louder, "Hey, bro. What happened to my elbow pads?"

"Huh? Uh...", dragged back to reality by Roy's question, "I don't know." John shrugging what he can of his shoulders from under Roy's body weight. "Were you wearing shoulder pads?"

"Elbow pads. They were elbow pads. Are you sure you're doing okay?" the correction coming with an air of concern from a guy looking half as healthy than the deprived man in question. The still breeze of the night filled with more trepidation than those fearful twilight hours usually tend to give those that wonder through it. The flickers from the lamp posts above not helping matters; a cold sweat begins to trickle down John's tired face.

"Is this about—" at the spit of Roy's words, the laws of nature make their descent. His dissection cut short as the neon signs in the square behind them pop and blow. One by one, each explodes into tiny sparks unimpeded by the next— as if this was in their own idea of a personal grand finale. All the signs grow dark, except the one by the decrepit apartment building— one Roy knows all too well by now. A shiver sent to the spines of both unhealthy men. This was the time to go— as if any sign before couldn't spell it out better.

The two slowly make their way back the route John had used. Roy, helping where he could, does his best to lighten the load as they begin to pick up speed. The thought was still on his mind. The reason John might be on edge— the other reason he had returned to this city. All of it dispelled by the mere focus in the forefront of John's mind, "You're hurt way worse than a few bruises more than your normal scrapes. I'm taking you to the hospital up the street. Deal with it."

"Bro, wait! You can't," Roy comes to a near stop in protest to John's decision. Nearly pulling John down, the frustration palpable as the weight that is pulling him back.

"Why?" the boiling point can be heard in his voice as it simmers below the surface of his drained face. While his flared eyes pierce through the forehead of the injured man beside him, that can only avoid meeting John's gaze halfway.

"It's because," Roy self-consciously clarifies, "I can't afford it."

Baffled, John is left with more questions than he originally had assumed. "What? How? Your parents can afford something like this, easily!"

"If they were paying for it."

This statement landed John even further into uncharted territory. Evident enough to how much outside of the loop he was to Roy's situation—one he had once known far too well—another question leads itself into another and another. "When did they stop doing that?" as the rabbit hole lends itself deeper and deeper.

"When I left about two years ago."

"Where did you go?"

"To my uncle's."

"And, where was that?"

"Back home."

"'Home' home or his home?"

"Where do you think, bro?"

With a pinch to the bridge of his nose, John lets out a breath of all of his frustrations. "Yeah, that was kind of a dumb question. Wasn't it," relenting with a sigh.

"Ok," John adapts while taking in two lung-fulls of fresh air, "then, I'll drop you off elsewhere to get cleaned up."

"Ok, cool kool. And, where is that?"

"It's just a clinic up on Florence street. Only a turn sooner than that of the hospital," John flippantly answers as they get back to trudging forward towards their new destination.

As with the slower pace, the hisses from the dim city light posts become more noticeable as the denizens of the dank crevasses from before crackle and echo louder with life that cannot be seen. The haunted air of the early hours unleashing their notoriety with the relentless teases to keep one on edge. Even the baseless gall—or bravado—of most people struggle to hold strong against its' creative methods.

The tourist district, as it is so disrespectfully coined as now, was formally known as the city's historic district, and, with that, comes its' own urban legends. Legends known by the locals. Myths crafted from their crimes. And, those in the know and lost within its' labyrinthian historic quarters, are aware of the creep the irrational tends to invite when one stews within their mind too long. Regardless of age or mindset, all are susceptible to the fear of the historically unknown. This is especially true to those returning to these streets at the dead of night.

With each crackle and pop, Roy's messy head twists and turns as if it were on a silver swivel tray awaiting its' most anticipated guests. The periods of quiet struggle during their three-legged trudge have only been offset by the surrounding brick-and-mortar building's natural, noisy decay and bumps into the urban night. The damage having done a number on the poor returnee. For the sake of conversation—and sanity— Roy conjures up what had been denied before, "Is it about her?"