The Yellow–Eyed Demon

August 3rd, 1993

London, England

A boy with short, black, messy hair walked through the throng of people on the London streets at night, his icy, emerald green eyes flittering about, landing on people's hands, pockets, waists, and chests, seemingly in constant search of any kind of weaponry. His body was covered by a dark Henley shirt and a black leather jacket, and his jeans were a dark grey. Finishing the ensemble was a pair of black trainers. A red, seemingly irritated scar in the shape of the lightning bolt occasionally peeked out from under his hair, marring his otherwise seemingly flawless forehead.

He strode confidently down the street, his hands in his pockets. The sound of a radio reporting on several murders reached his ears, and he briefly stopped up and listened intently to the radio broadcast for almost a minute, drawing a few awkward looks, and then continued on with the barest hints of a smirk.

•••

"Earlier this week, a girl aged fifteen walked into a London police station with torn clothes, on the brink of a mental breakdown," the English, female voice on radio spoke clearly. "When she calmed down, she was able to inform the police that she had been assaulted and nearly raped by a man, whose body the police recovered later when the girl told them where the assault took place. The girl, whose name remains confidential to protect her identity and the identity of her family, has confirmed to the police that she was saved from her attacker by a boy around her own age. She claims that her saviour was a boy, fourteen or fifteen at most, with dark hair and dark clothes. While it is almost certain that she has suffered traumatically, and as such may have altered memories of the event, she swears that his eyes were yellow and glowing in the darkness.

"However, an anonymous source claims that similar cases have been investigated in the past few months; several convicted murderers, rapists, and kidnappers have been found dead, some of which were seen killed by, and I quote, 'a single shot to the forehead in execution by a yellow–eyed, cold–blooded demon'. While this individual has saved a girl's life, dignity, and possibly her sanity, as well as killed individuals who committed heinous crimes, he has been reported to have killed these individuals, who reportedly number around twenty to thirty, he is still a cold–blooded murderer. If you see the Yellow–Eyed Demon, report it to the police immediately. He is armed and dangerous, despite reports suggesting a young age."

The older man standing behind the bar counter looked sceptically at the radio before he reached over and changed stations. After that, he went back to wiping the wet, sticky counter. He had better things to do than listen to ridiculous radio hosts spouting supernatural nonsense.

•••

"Please..." the man rasped out, a little spittle of blood escaping his split, bloody lips as he clutched his chest. "Spare me." His left eye was swollen shut, the blood underneath his skin darkening it to a deep purple. His right eye, however, was pushing out silent tears as he stared up at the person holding the black pistol to his forehead. "I'm sorry."

"You're not sorry for what you did," a dark, yet young voice countered, void of all emotion. The person who owned it was hidden in the deep, dark shadows of the night covering the alley. The only visible feature other than his waist and legs were his eyes; yellow, glowing, predatory in nature, but still calm, icy, and lacking in any kind of empathy or sympathy. "You're sorry that I caught you doing it, and you're afraid I'm going to kill you."

The beaten and bloodied man lowered his head, and his shoulders began shaking as the sobs escaped him.

"And I am."

The man turned and tried to crawl away from the shorter menace, desperately dragging himself along the ground; his legs, bent and broken in a gruesome display of brutality, were useless. His sobs became cries of fear and pain both, and scared whimpers came from behind a car parked in the alley as he dragged himself past the end. As he tried to reach out, the young girl curled up against the wall and car, no older than fifteen or fourteen, started squirming and wailing again, her shredded blouse and jumper hanging off her form and her bare legs clenched together to deny access to her nether regions. Before his hand could get anywhere near her, however, a trainer–wearing foot crashed down on it hard, making the man cry out in pain even more.

"NO, PLEASE!"

A loud crack rang out in the night, and the girl screamed and broke down in tears and howls of fright as a little blood splattered on her legs and the sound hurt her ears, masking a dull thud of something hitting the ground. Slowly opening her eyes and daring a little peek, she saw the blank eyes of her attacker staring into her own, his jaw slack as a pool of blood slowly spread from under his head, and a little trickled out of the hole in his left temple. The girl looked up at the short man who had saved her, and his glowing, yellow eyes seemed to pierce her soul. She was enthralled and unable to look away, until finally he did and turned his head back and slowly, surely, and confidently walk out of the alley.

She very slowly stood up on wobbly legs, almost tripping several times as she did. Her left hand held together what was left of her blouse and jumper, and her right hand went to her crotch to cover herself. Her skirt was lying next to the body, soaked in his blood and her urine. She left it there, and fumbled and stumbled her way out of the alley, only to find a small, black bag laying on top of a rubbish bin. Opening it, she found new clothes and a bundle of pound notes, as well as a form with the stamp of the London Police on it. She could barely stand, but no longer from pain and fright; her saviour was a true guardian angel.