[CW: Violence]
 
The tiled roofs began to patter, softly at first, then louder, as the cold drizzle gave way to cold rain. It wet the paving slabs along the main street below and puddled in the road, cooling the air and sending a fresh breeze into the surrounding network of dark and narrow lanes, yards and ghauts. As it brushed by the barely distinguishable figure of a man on the ground, it roused him a little – enough remind him, briefly, that he should get out of here; not enough to get him to actually move. It would be some time before the rain got him. The alley was too narrow for the drops to touch him were he lay. They would slowly work their way down along the brick walls or find a quicker path down a drain pipe and run away along a narrow ditch. There was already something wet under his hip, but then again, the alley did stink of urine. Whether it had been there when he fell or whether he had lost control of his own bladder, he couldn’t remember. Nor did he care much.
 
It was the kind of slum alley that a gentleman had no business finding himself in, much less so after dark. But here Tristan lay, curled up on the cold, dirty pavement, still unable to get up. It wasn’t the pain. Not the black eye, the bust lip, the pain in his head, his ribs, his stomach, his legs. It was there, but hardly it registered. It could have been somebody else’s. He still lay there because despite the dropping temperature and the threat of rain, he had to protect his vital organs from more kicks and punches. All was quiet around him except for the vague pitter-patter above, but Tristan’s arms still covered his head. His legs were still drawn up to his chest. Protect the vital organs!