The humid Brooklyn air clung to Ethan like a shroud, thick with the scent of exhaust fumes, stale pizza, and something indefinably… desperate. He sat on his stoop, the makeshift ramp his neighbor, Mrs. Rodriguez, had built for him a small act of kindness in a world that seemed determined to grind him into dust. His prosthetic leg, a marvel of engineering and a constant reminder of his failure, rested awkwardly against the chipped concrete. His remaining arm, clad in a worn leather glove, gripped a half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey.

The sun was setting, painting the brick tenements of Bedford-Stuyvesant in hues of orange and bruised purple. It was a fleeting beauty, a moment of grace before the darkness settled in, bringing with it the shadows and the rot that festered beneath the veneer of normalcy. He watched people stream by – hurried mothers dragging children, teenagers with headphones blasting, old men arguing over dominoes. They were all just trying to survive, just like him.

A wave of guilt washed over him, a familiar ache. He should be doing more. He should be protecting these people, his neighbors, from the petty crimes and the creeping sense of hopelessness that permeated the air. He, a trained soldier, relegated to this – a broken man nursing a bottle and watching the world fall apart.

He took another swig of whiskey, the burn a temporary distraction from the phantom pain that throbbed in his absent limbs. Afghanistan. He closed his eyes, the images flooding back unbidden: the dust, the heat, the screams, the faces of the men he'd lost. He saw Sergeant Miller, his best friend, his brother, vaporized by an IED. He saw the young boy, no older than ten, strapped with explosives. He saw the faces of the men he had killed, their eyes accusing him even in death.

He slammed the bottle down, the sound echoing in the twilight. He had tried to escape, to bury the memories beneath layers of alcohol and self-pity. But they always found him.

A commotion down the street snapped him back to reality. Voices, loud and aggressive, cut through the evening air. He squinted, his vision blurred by the whiskey and the encroaching darkness. He saw a small group of young men, their faces obscured by hoodies, surrounding a woman. She was struggling, her voice rising in a plea.

It was Clara, his neighbor from across the hall. She was a kind woman, a nurse at the local hospital, always smiling, always willing to lend a hand. She had even offered to help him with his rehabilitation, an offer he had brusquely refused. He didn't want her pity.

But seeing her now, surrounded by those predators, something inside him snapped. The whiskey-induced haze cleared, replaced by a cold, hard clarity. He couldn't stand by and watch. Not again.

He pushed himself up from the stoop, his prosthetic leg clicking against the concrete. The pain shot through him, a sharp reminder of his limitations. But he ignored it, focusing on the burning anger that surged through his veins.

He moved towards them, slowly at first, then with increasing speed. The thugs hadn't noticed him yet, their attention focused on Clara. He could hear their taunts, their crude jokes. They were trying to intimidate her, to scare her.

"Leave her alone," Ethan growled, his voice rough and gravelly.

The thugs turned, their eyes narrowing as they took in his appearance. A cripple, missing an arm and a leg. An easy target.

"What's it to you, old man?" one of them sneered, stepping forward. He was tall and wiry, with a sneering grin and a glint of menace in his eyes.

"She's my neighbor," Ethan said, his voice low and dangerous. "I told you, leave her alone."

The thug laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "And what are you going to do about it, cripple? Gonna hop your way over here and tickle us?"

The other thugs joined in the laughter, their voices echoing down the street. Clara looked at Ethan, her eyes wide with fear and gratitude.

Ethan didn't respond. He knew he was at a disadvantage. He was outnumbered, outmatched, and physically impaired. But he also knew that he couldn't back down. Not now.

He took another step forward, his prosthetic leg digging into the pavement. "I'm going to give you one last chance," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "Walk away. Now."

The thug lunged, a switchblade flashing in the fading light. Ethan reacted instinctively, his training kicking in. He ducked under the blade, using his good arm to grab the thug's wrist. He twisted, applying pressure to the pressure points he had learned in the army.

The thug screamed, dropping the knife. Ethan followed up with a swift kick to the knee with his prosthetic, sending the thug sprawling.

The other thugs hesitated, surprised by Ethan's sudden burst of violence. But their hesitation was brief. They swarmed him, a flurry of fists and feet.

Ethan fought back, his movements clumsy but determined. He managed to land a few blows, but he was quickly overwhelmed. He was thrown to the ground, the thugs raining down on him.

He felt a sharp pain in his ribs, a sickening crunch. He tasted blood in his mouth. He tried to get up, but his body refused to obey.

He saw Clara watching, her face contorted with horror. He wanted to tell her to run, to get away. But he couldn't speak.

The thugs continued to beat him, their anger fueled by their frustration. They kicked him, punched him, stomped on him. He felt his consciousness fading, the world blurring around him.

He closed his eyes, surrendering to the darkness. He had failed. He had tried to protect Clara, but he had only made things worse.

He heard a voice in his head, a mocking whisper. "See? You're nothing but a broken soldier, a useless cripple. You can't save anyone."

He wanted to argue, to deny it. But he knew it was true. He was a failure.

The beating continued, each blow driving him further into the abyss. He felt a strange sense of peace, a resignation to his fate. He was going to die here, in the shadows of Bedford-Stuyvesant, a broken man with nothing to show for his life.

Then, everything went black.

The thugs, satisfied that they had taught the "cripple" a lesson, melted back into the shadows, leaving Ethan lying motionless on the sidewalk. Clara rushed to his side, her hands trembling as she checked for a pulse.

She found a faint heartbeat, weak but present. Tears streamed down her face as she dialed 911, her voice choked with sobs.

"Please," she whispered, clutching Ethan's hand. "Please don't die."

The sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder with each passing second. The red and blue lights reflected off the brick buildings, casting long, distorted shadows.

Ethan lay there, unconscious, his body broken and bleeding. He was left for dead, another victim of the violence and despair that plagued the streets of Bedford-Stuyvesant. But something had shifted that night. Something had been awakened within him, a dormant power that would soon change his life forever. He just didn't know it yet. The Aethelred Strain was about to bloom.