Chapter 19 – The Crucifixion of a City
The convoy carrying Mayor Grimson crawled through the night, a string of black sedans cutting through the fog-draped avenues of Liberty City. Headlights fractured against the mist, and sirens, muted in the distance, wailed like mourning bells. Gina rode in the lead car, her sharp eyes never straying from the shadows that pressed against the glass. Every block they passed felt wrong—alleys yawning too wide, streetlamps flickering as if trembling, the night air thick with the taste of iron and rain.
She gripped her blade's hilt and whispered to herself, "Stay sharp. He's here. I can feel him."
Behind her, Grimson sat in the second car flanked by nervous guards. The mayor's hands twitched, clutching at the armrest as sweat trickled down his temples. He had ordered this man's death years ago. Now, that ghost walked his streets, killing senators, slaughtering commissioners, painting the city in blood. And tonight, he knew, the shadow had come for him.
A sudden hiss—tires screaming against asphalt. The first sedan screeched to a halt. Out of the fog, something darker than night itself poured across the street: a wall of shifting, writhing blackness. Gina's instincts screamed.
"Out! NOW!" she barked, slamming the door open.
The guards stumbled, weapons raised, but it was too late. From the center of the road, a tall figure stepped forward, coat fluttering as if in a phantom wind. The full moon haloed him from behind, casting his face into dreadful obscurity. Only the glint of his eyes shone—a cold, unholy light.
H.I.M had arrived.
The shadows rippled outward from his feet, coiling around lampposts, cars, and trembling men like serpents. Gunfire erupted in panic. Bullets vanished into the abyss before they ever touched him. H.I.M walked forward, unhurried, each step ringing with inevitability.
"Run!" Gina shouted. She leapt forward, her blade drawn, slashing at the rolling tide of darkness. Her steel carved a thin arc of silver in the gloom, pushing back the shadows just enough to keep them from swallowing her whole. She lunged at him, her speed a blur.
H.I.M's hand rose lazily. A wall of shadows erupted. Her sword struck it and sparked as though she had clashed with solid iron. The force hurled her back, but she rolled to her feet, teeth gritted.
"You're not taking him," she spat.
For the first time, his voice slithered out, low and resonant, filling the street like the toll of a funeral bell.
"I take what I want, swordswoman. Stand aside, and I might let you live."
"Over my dead body."
"So be it."
The street ignited with violence. Gina charged, her blade flashing like liquid lightning. She ducked under grasping tendrils, slashing through shadows that tried to pin her. Sparks and black mist exploded with every clash. Her strikes were sharp, precise, the culmination of years of discipline. For fleeting moments, she seemed to carve open the night itself.
But H.I.M was more than mortal. He weaved through her attacks with a predator's grace, shadows snapping into shields and spears at his command. Each movement seemed designed not to kill her outright, but to wear her down—testing, toying, savoring her desperation.
The fight spilled across the street, shattering car windows, sending sparks flying from torn asphalt. Her blade finally found flesh—a shallow cut across his cheek. For the briefest instant, her heart soared. He can be hurt.
H.I.M only smiled.
The shadows surged, doubling in ferocity. A tendril lashed her across the ribs, cracking bone. Another slammed her to the pavement, driving the air from her lungs. Still, she forced herself up, blood dripping down her chin, sword trembling but unbroken.
"You'll… never… have him," she rasped.
"You are brave," H.I.M said softly, almost admiringly. His eyes glowed brighter, like burning coals. "But bravery is meaningless against inevitability."
The ground beneath her feet opened like a maw of darkness. She plunged in, choking on the suffocating void. Tendrils wrapped her arms and legs, holding her suspended like a crucifixion in midair. She screamed, struggling, blade thrashing—but the shadows were merciless. With a flick of his hand, H.I.M hurled her broken body against the side of a car. Metal shrieked. Glass shattered.
She slid to the ground, coughing blood, her sword clattering beside her. Still alive, but shattered, her spirit dimming.
H.I.M turned his gaze to the second car. The guards inside fired desperately, bullets vanishing into his abyss. He extended his arm, and the doors burst open with a screech. The mayor was dragged out screaming, shadows binding him like chains.
"No—NO! Please! Don't!" Grimson shrieked, clawing at the black tendrils as they lifted him into the air. His voice cracked with pure terror. "I had no choice! It wasn't me—it was politics! It was survival!"
H.I.M tilted his head, listening as one might to the buzzing of an insect.
"You gave the order. You signed my death. You thought I would vanish. Instead, I became eternal."
Grimson sobbed, thrashing in his bonds. "I'll give you anything—power, money, the city itself—"
"There is only one currency I accept," H.I.M whispered. His hand clenched, and the shadows dragged Grimson away, vanishing into the night.
Behind them, Gina reached weakly for her blade, tears of rage cutting through the blood on her face. She tried to stand, but her body betrayed her. Darkness swallowed them both, leaving her crumpled in silence.
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Dawn broke with horror.
When the first workers arrived at City Hall, their screams shattered the morning calm. Crowds gathered in disbelief, and then in terror, at the sight that loomed above them.
On the peak of City Hall's marble façade, high above the city, the body of Mayor Grimson was crucified. His arms were stretched wide, pinned with jagged spears of shadow that flickered like obsidian glass. Blood cascaded down the walls, painting the pillars crimson. Above his head, words were scrawled in his own blood, dripping letters that gleamed wet in the sunlight:
REVENGE.
The city erupted in chaos. Sirens howled. Helicopters circled. Reporters wept on live broadcasts. Mothers pulled their children away from the square, shielding their eyes from the grotesque spectacle. Panic rippled through Liberty like wildfire.
And then—laughter.
High above, standing on the edge of a skyscraper across from City Hall, the figure of H.I.M loomed against the rising sun. His coat billowed, his silhouette wreathed in shadows that curled like smoke. His laughter rolled across the city like thunder—deep, mocking, triumphant. It was not the laughter of a man, but of something that had transcended humanity.
Every ear heard it. Every heart froze.
And Liberty City knew: the age of shadows had only just begun.
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