The morning fog of Rouvenne always clung a little heavier to the skin. It wasn't just weather — it was the city's breath. Steam hissed from bronze chimneys, and tram rails sang their low metallic song through the waking streets. In this pocket of the world, where arcane tech met demonic residue, Rouvenne exhaled secrets with every puff of smoke.
Asher stood at the tram stop, long red hair tucked behind one horn, a folded newspaper under one arm, and the other hand warming around a half-dead cup of street coffee. His fedora was slightly crooked. He'd overslept by one minute.
Maybe two.
He boarded the tram, squeezing past a mechanical cello player that crooned a haunting waltz without a single passenger listening. His boots tapped quietly down the aisle as the city blurred past the window — crooked chimneys, hovering carriages, and the kind of early-morning faces that looked like they'd already lost a fight.
His breath fogged the glass. He exhaled slowly.
First day. First briefing. First time working with the infamous nicotine cryptid in a trench coat.
He smirked.
The tram hissed to a stop outside a café tucked behind a library façade, its name carved in faded script above the door: "Mirelle's." Ordinary, quaint — a perfect front for a covert agency that hunted nightmares.
Asher stepped inside and found the room already humming with low conversation. Agents in battered coats nursed coffees and secrets, half of them armed to the teeth, the other half probably were the teeth.
At the back, in a corner booth claimed permanently by a small army of ashtrays and sarcasm, sat Clark Duvall — a human chimney with murder in his eyes and a ledger of sins behind his tired grin.
Clark didn't look up. He took a drag from his cigarette, flipped a page in a case file, and muttered through the smoke:
"Told you not to be late, horny boy. Rouvenne doesn't wait for fashionably damned."
Asher slid into the booth with a smirk. "Technically, I'm only 82 seconds late."
Clark blew smoke directly into his face. "And technically, I've lived through six apocalypses. Want a cookie?"
Across the table, a woman sipped an espresso the color of tar. She wore round glasses and had a mechanical lens ticking faintly on one eye. Her dark hair was braided tight, and her fingers moved constantly — fidgeting with a small cube that shimmered between dimensions.
"New kid?" she asked without looking up.
"Asher," he offered. "And you are?"
She snapped the cube into place and smiled faintly. "Salem Virell. Tech division. Hacking, spells, spatial locks — if it breaks the rules, I can break it worse."
Clark gestured to her with his cigarette. "Brains of the operation. Built a cursed vending machine once that now dispenses both ammo and nightmares. Don't ask what happens if it jams."
"Noted," Asher replied.
Clark dragged a folder across the table and slapped it open with the enthusiasm of a tax auditor on espresso. Inside: grainy photos of a lavish estate, glowing sigils, blurred demonic faces, and one name scrawled in red ink.
MASQUERADE: DURELLE MANOR.
"Tonight," Clark said, voice flat, "we're attending a high-society snuff party with better hors d'oeuvres and worse morals. Durelle Manor's hosting a masked gala. Our friend Madame Arlisse is suspected of running a front for soul harvesting — demons feeding off bottled agony. Think wine tasting, but the wine is screaming in jars."
Salem slid over a schematic of the estate. "Security is arcane, some of it sentient. The manor changes layouts hourly. There's a garden illusion that eats people. Invitations were sent to only the wealthiest collectors and, somehow, three influencers."
Clark coughed once, then added, "Your job? Look pretty, stay sneaky. Blend in. Scope the interior, mark the core ritual sites, and don't get caught fondling anything cursed unless you want to sneeze bees for a week."
Asher raised a brow. "Sounds charming."
Clark leaned in, one eye twitching. "They fondle back, kid. They fondle back."
The map was quickly filled with notes — blind spots, hidden stairs, guest lists, and sigil markers. Salem handed over an enchanted earpiece, slick and humming faintly.
"Wear this. It'll keep us linked and hide your voice with a nobleman's accent if someone gets nosy. You'll sound like a snob who's never been punched."
Clark snorted. "So, yourself."
They reviewed their cover identities. Asher would pose as the bastard son of a southern warlock magnate. Clark would be his "mentor," and Salem would be embedded remotely, guiding from a cloaked van disguised as a gelato truck.
Asher finished his coffee. "And what's the objective?"
Clark stood, adjusting his long coat with a sigh that sounded like death filing paperwork. "Observe. Report. If we confirm soul extraction rituals — mark the sources. We'll send a cleanup squad after. No heroics, no demon-bashing unless you want to dance with a lawsuit and a Level Five mimic with abandonment issues."
He turned to leave, then paused.
"Also, don't touch anything shaped like a baby. Or anything that cries like one."
Asher blinked. "Why?"
Salem and Clark, in perfect sync, both muttered:
"Because sometimes it's real."
The café's mood shifted as agents began clearing out, leaving Asher sitting in the steam-slicked silence, badge in his pocket, mind already threading through what the night would bring — fine suits, false faces, and something ancient hiding behind a masquerade of music and perfume.
Outside, the fog had thickened.
And Rouvenne, as always, waited with hungry breath.
Night draped over Rouvenne like a velvet trap, thick and suffocating. The city's heartbeat slowed but never stopped. Somewhere, a distant church bell tolled midnight, dragging time through mud and shadow.
Asher slipped on his coat, adjusting the horns of his fedora just right. The neon flicker of Mirelle's sign buzzed behind him as Clark and Salem stepped out into the cool air. Salem's mechanical eye clicked softly, scanning the streets with practiced precision.
Clark lit another cigarette, the ember glowing like a weak warning flare in the fog.
"First rule of Rouvenne's nightlife," Clark muttered, exhaling a plume that hung like a curtain between them: "Never trust a streetlamp to light your path — they just want to watch you stumble."
Asher smiled, a slow, deliberate curve that didn't quite reach his eyes.
The three slipped through cobblestone alleys, shadows folding over them like old leather. Their footsteps were muffled, but Clark's gaze cut sharp and restless, every corner marked in his memory like a loaded gun.
The tram had dropped them three blocks from the manor — enough to keep their arrival casual, but close enough to avoid suspicion.
Ahead, the estate rose like a beast cloaked in grandeur. Durelle Manor wasn't just a building; it was a fortress stitched from twisted iron and haunted marble, wrapped in wrought-iron fences adorned with snarling gargoyle heads that seemed to breathe.
The gardens stretched out like a dark sea, perfectly manicured yet unnervingly silent, no crickets, no rustle of leaves—just the cold hum of enchantments hidden in the soil.
Salem knelt briefly, pulling out a small, pulsing device — part compass, part arcane detector.
"Field's thick with wards," she murmured, "and the scent of—whatever that is—pretty fresh. Definitely not your average ghost story."
Clark flicked ash onto the cracked pavement and nodded.
"Security's tight. Outside patrols change every fifteen minutes, and the lighting's enchanted to mimic daylight. That means no hiding in shadows unless you want to be screamed at by a dozen fireflies."
Asher scanned the perimeter, his green Hellfire flickering faintly under his skin, ready to ignite if needed.
"Looks like the party's already started. See the lights in the east wing?"
Clark pointed to tall stained glass windows glowing with warm light, golden and sinister all at once.
"Asher," Clark said, voice low and sharp, "I want you to memorize every guard shift you see. Count them, note their gear, and track patrol patterns. Salem and I will cover flanks. No heroics, just data."
Asher tilted his head, eyes narrowing.
"Data, huh? What if the guards start talking back?"
Clark's dry laugh cracked the cold air. "Then you remind them why cigarette smoke tastes like death and bad decisions."
They moved like ghosts around the perimeter, crouching behind statues that seemed to watch with stone eyes. Asher noted the mechanical eyes embedded in the gates, the faint glow of runes carved deep into the walls, and the steady rhythm of boots on gravel.
Salem's lens flickered to life, projecting holographic blueprints into the air — a ghostly outline of the manor's exterior, entrances, and the sprawling garden maze rumored to confuse even the most experienced trackers.
Clark crouched low near the east wing, whispering into his comm, "Two patrols east side, heavier guards near the main gate. Pattern's sloppy but deadly. We'll need to time our move carefully."
Asher flicked his lighter open with a snap, a brief flame illuminating the sharp lines of his face before he flicked it away.
"This place is a damn labyrinth," he muttered. "And I don't like labyrinths. They remind me of the worst kinds of nightmares — the ones where you run in circles and the monster's just waiting."
Clark's eyes glinted in the dark.
"Well, kid, tonight you're not just running. You're the mouse with a Molotov."
They regrouped by the back fence, faces tight with unspoken tension and the quiet promise of violence.
Clark crushed his cigarette underfoot and looked to Asher.
"Tomorrow, we go inside. For now, keep your eyes sharp and your mouth shut. And remember: when they ask who you are, smile. Lie. And don't get cute."
Asher nodded once, the weight of the night pressing down, but inside, the twin fires of Hell and Heaven stirred, ready to burn.