The sky above this city is never truly dark. Neon lights from decaying buildings, flickering digital billboards, and the orange glow of streetlamps collide into an atmosphere more foreign than the night itself.
I walked slowly through damp concrete alleys, my footsteps nearly swallowed by the distant roar of traffic that never stops.
In my ear, Maeve's voice came through like a whisper from the heart—speaking beneath the noise of the world.
"You're still on track. Two more blocks to the last detected location of the card's signal."
I glanced toward a shuttered storefront, its rolling door half-closed. The night wind bit at the back of my neck, and old instincts stirred—as if every shadow held murderous intent.
"This place… feels like a graveyard waiting to be filled," I murmured.
"Vassago doesn't leave traces by accident," Maeve replied. "If he knows you're closing in… this might not be a hunt. It might be an invitation."
I said nothing. And kept walking.
The building I approached looked like a former print shop. Its paint was peeling, its windows dark and cracked. Yet the signal from the card still blinked on the small digital tracker in my hand—a single red dot, unmoving.
"You sure he's here?" I asked.
"There's no certainty in the shadows, Exsanguine. Only the choice to keep moving."
I touched the grip of the pistol hidden beneath my coat, then pushed the creaking door open slowly.
The room inside was empty. The air hung with the scent of rust and old oil. But I knew this place wasn't truly silent.
I stopped walking when the door behind me locked itself with a mechanical click. Then—faint noises: footsteps, held breaths, soft pulses from every direction.
"Maeve…" I whispered.
"Too late. Signal's gone. Exsanguine, it's a trap! Get out of—"
But I already knew.
The corners of the room lit up with red rifle lasers. From the upper balcony, shadows moved. Down the iron stairs, masked figures descended—slowly, silently.
There were too many of them.
Too quiet.
And then—someone stepped through the crowd. Tall. Broad. His black suit impeccable, gloved hands folded across his chest.
Our eyes met.
Vassago.
He said nothing.
He didn't need to.
He raised a single finger—and the world collapsed in a blink.