He stood tall at the edge of the rocks, fifty meter above the city. His face was dirty with dust and sweat. His hands were dark and wet, covered with blood.
He looked at the city below. He had witnessed it growing old, as old as the rocks. As old as him.
The rage of eternal fire burnt the city from below. Grey smoke rose ten thousands meter. Men and women were murdered and raped. Corruption, we breathed. Indifference, we smelled. The Gold were privileged few, living in their tower. The Grey struggled with the world, as the city was dying.
The rain had poured down, washing away the dripping blood from his wounded chest, as it healed slowly. The mark of his stupidity as he tried to save those Grey children.
This was his curse. A curse of immortality.