A/N: I'm not sure if I'm going to continue this or not; seems like it should turn into a story, but right now I'm thinking one-shot character study. Depends on the reviews.

Why am I the Witness?

A dark alley, no different than any other in downtown New York. Graffiti covering the slowly decaying brick. A dirty window with cracks making intricate patterns over its glass. A bum sitting by the rusted trash cans.

With a click Mark stopped his camera and attached it to the handles of his bike. Pulling his coat collar up to ward off the wind that flung snow down his back and into his face, he wheeled the beaten up street bike over a frozen puddle and towards his apartment. A Range Rover drove past with its headlights blazing, and Mark caught a quick glance at Benny, his landlord, in the front seat before he turned the corner and disappeared from view.

Mark adjusted the strap of his messenger bag; the duct tape holding it together was beginning to dig into his neck. Being still a few blocks away, he would have gladly ridden the rest of the way home, but it was too icy to bike on the roads that hadn't been plowed the night before. Mark swore as he pulled at his bag again.

Rounding the last building separating him and his warm couch (if Benny hadn't shut off the heat yet) when he saw a movement in the shadows down the street. Reaching his apartment building, Mark left his camera on the steps and tried to see what was going on. There was someone fighting, he could hear the angry voices. The dim moon barely illuminated two figures by the curb. The taller one had the other by the arm.

"Give me your money, kid." A gruff voice said, and the smaller figure was shaken violently. Mark could now see that it was a young girl being pushed around. She didn't look particularly out of place, probably homeless. But she seemed to be trying to hold her ground, which any real New Yorker would know not to do.

The girl said something too low for Mark to make out, but it must've been an insult because she was shoved to the ground a minute later. Pinning her down with one arm, the man tried to wrestle her small backpack from her, but she held on tightly. A sound was heard as the girl was hit hard across the face.

"Hey!" Mark yelled, dropping his bag as he ran to the two. Before he knew it he had landed hard on the tall man's back, throwing both of them to the concrete a foot away. They rolled over, Mark throwing a few ill-aimed punches until his fist connected with the man's jaw. Yelling in pain, the mugger lifted Mark up off the ground and slammed him into a nearby wall.

Dazed, his head feeling as if the brick had split it, Mark struggled with the hands that held him up, but to no use. A large fist came out of nowhere to begin hitting him in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him again and again. He thought he heard a scream, but could barely hear anything at all over the own ringing in his ears.

Suddenly his attacker let go of him and disappeared from view, though to where Mark didn't know. Everything was blurred, and had a strange, glowing affect to it. Groaning, he slid to the ground, shaking. He felt as if he had been ripped to shreds, and his ribs seemed shattered. He could feel blood on the back of his neck, but didn't seem to be able to move his hand to wipe it away.

A pale face loomed up in front of him. Cold arms wrapped around him and pulled him into an embrace. He felt fingers on his forehead, and others wrapped around his own hand. Something was mumbled to him, but he was slipping away too fast to understand it. Something about an apartment or a house or something… but he couldn't comprehend, couldn't hear… they needed to speak louder…

Shivering in the cold night air, Mark slid into unconsciousness.