The old man battled to remain conscious. A searing pain emanated from his wrist, demanding attention while an impending wave of nausea threatened to plunge him into darkness.

The next instant, he found himself forcibly hauled to his feet and shoved toward a narrow gap between market stalls. Darkness descended as he stumbled through the passage, propelled forward by unseen hands in the pitch-black void.

Shielding his face with one arm, he attempted to cradle his injured limb against his chest. It throbbed clearly indicating a fracture. No time to think about it; he was being driven forward at a relentless pace. Right. Left. Straight ahead for a minute. Right again. Forward. Disoriented and detached from his surroundings, his mind wandered. Familiar pain pushed memories into the forefront: the echo of a football match where he'd foolishly broken the same wrist trying to block a strike with open palms returned, evoking the pungent scents of grass and sweat from years past.

"Answer! Are you injured?" a rough, gravelly voice demanded.

They had finally stopped running, and the man struggled to regain his breath and stay conscious.

"Yeah ... broke my wrist."

A faint light emerged directly in front of him, scanning his body. Then, a gentle touch on his wrist.

"Ouch!"

"Hopefully just a sprain. It seems aligned. We don't have time for this..." the voice trailed off.

Their journey continued, at a slower pace now, navigating through the dimness. After another perplexing stretch of twists and turns, they arrived at a door.

"Hush," the shadowy figure ahead whispered, opening the door bit by bit, and then stepping through.

The man followed, entering the external world. Even in complete darkness, he would have known he was outdoors by the acrid taste in his mouth. He needed his mask.

"Come," instructed the man ahead, beginning to walk along the street.

Perhaps a quarter of an hour later, they reached a small door adorned with a neon sign advertising a some sort of tavern. It had been all the man could do to keep up, and though the place appeared exceedingly dubious, the allure of safety and respite tugged at him. The name of the place was vaguely familiar. Had he been here before?

The cloaked figure tried the door, finding it locked. After persistent knocking yielded no results, he turned toward the elderly man. "Wait here. They'll return eventually and let you in. Ask for Achord. Tell him Michael sent you."

"What? Can't you stay with me? What if those other guys return? I don't even know..."

"The last thing you want is to be caught with me!" the figure in black chuckled, lowering his hood to reveal the face of a young man, one of the most intense-looking individuals he had ever encountered.

"Don't you know who I am?"

"I don't know anything, anybody. I've just been released from jail..." Then, noticing his companion lacked a face covering, he added, "Where's your mask?"

The man merely stared at him.

"Jail? What are you talking about, old man? What's your name?"

"Jerry. Jeremiah Anderson."

For an instant, the imposing figure before him froze. Then, in one swift motion, his trusted savior delivered an elbow strike on the unsuspecting old man, knocking him clean out.