"Leon."
A voice called his name, pulling him slowly from sleep.
"Hmm…" Leon yawned, eyes cracking open as the darkness of the room sharpened into focus.
Night.
The stranger sat nearby, arms folded, watching him with far too much awareness for the hour.
"It's night now," the stranger said, his tone flat. "So can you finally tell me what you actually plan on doing here?"
Leon blinked once, then stretched lazily, as if the question barely mattered.
"Oh, that?" he said, voice still rough with sleep. "Not much, really."
The tone alone made the stranger uneasy.
He leaned forward. "What do you mean, 'not much'?"
His eyes narrowed as he studied Leon's face—the relaxed posture, the half-smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"If memory serves," the stranger continued, "every time you say 'not much,' it turns into something very much."
Leon's smile widened. Not friendly. Just enough to confirm the stranger's suspicion.
"No, I'm serious. It's really not much this time," Leon said, his gaze drifting toward the shuttered window. "We're just going to break in and steal a few artifacts from the Raven Merchant Auction House."
He spoke casually, as if suggesting a stroll through the market.
The stranger blinked.
"That…" he said slowly, "…that actually isn't much."
For a moment, he almost relaxed. Almost.
But Leon still wouldn't meet his eyes, and that alone was enough to raise alarms.
The stranger frowned.
'It's just the Raven Auction House,' he thought. 'Security's usually light—'
Then memory clicked.
Tomorrow. The exclusive auction. The real one, where the Raven House opened its vaults to the kingdom's elite. Guildmasters, high-tier mercenaries, collectors with more money than morals. And if the rumours were true—two representatives from the royal house would be there.
The more he replayed Leon's words, the less 'simple' the heist sounded.
The stranger drew a slow breath in, then out.
He looked back at Leon.
"…Fuck you."
Leon's grin turned faintly mischievous. "Come on, man. I promise it's not gonna be a big deal."
"Even if we get past the Raven House security—and that's a big if—how are we going to deal with the guests if they decide to intervene?"
"Leave that part to me," Leon said, leaning back against the wall. "You just focus on yours."
"And what exactly is my part?"
"Stealing the artifacts."
Leon's lips twitched. The words felt harmless enough, but the air between them grew heavier for a fraction of a second.
Silence fell.
The stranger stared, the unspoken question clear in his eyes: What do you even need those things for?
For a split second, Leon's carefree expression flickered. His pale blue eyes glowed with a bright, unnatural red.
The stranger's muscles tensed. Every hair on his arms rose. Instinct screamed at him to react, to move, but he stayed rooted.
Then it was gone. The eyes returned to calm blue, the posture relaxed. Leon waved a hand lazily.
"Don't bother," he said. "Besides, if I told you, I'd have to kill you."
The stranger forced his voice steady. "…Anyway. When do we move?" He tried to pretend Leon hadn't just outright threatened him.
'Ungrateful fucker,' he thought.
"We move when the moon is at its highest."
The stranger stood, opened the door, and left without another word. The soft click of the latch echoed in the quiet room.
Leon remained seated, eyes fixed on the closed door long after the stranger's footsteps faded.
He exhaled slowly.
"Are you sure I can't tell him?" Leon muttered, his voice low.
'No. Not now.'
"But he'll find out eventually…"
'If he does… you know what to do then.'
Leon didn't stay silent after that.
"This is why you never had friends in your previous life," he said quietly, almost to himself.
'Because the thought of being around them sickens me. Humans are selfish, filthy, and full of lies. They only speak the truth when death stares them in the face.'
"But aren't I human?" Leon asked, tilting his head slightly.
'No. Where I come from, humans cannot cast spells, wield godlike strength, or bend the world to their will. You… you're something else entirely.'
Leon remained quiet, letting the truth sink in. His hands rested on his knees, knuckles pale against the fabric of his trousers.
"Hey… Jack," he said after a moment, voice low. "Do you think any of them will show up? At the auction, I mean."
'…Probably. Even if one of them does, what could you do? You're not ready. Not yet. You wouldn't stand a chance against even one of them at full strength.'
Leon's jaw tightened. Memories flashed—bright, brutal, unbidden.
A burning house, flames clawing at timber.
Bodies impaled on spikes, twisted, broken.
A boy no older than nine, kneeling amidst the chaos, tears streaking his soot-stained face as everything he loved burned.
His eyes opened. They were red now—not from anger, but from memory, from the raw ache of loss that still coursed through him.
"I know… I know," Leon whispered, voice tight with controlled fury. "I have to be patient. I have to follow the plan."
'Patience is your only weapon. Let them come. Let them show themselves.'
Leon's hands clenched until his knuckles whitened. He flexed his fingers once, twice, testing the restraint in his own body.
"I will make them pay… for every single thing they took," he swore, teeth gritted.
He exhaled slowly. "And if they think I'm just waiting… if they think I'm idle… they'll regret it."
'Good. Let them underestimate you. That arrogance will be their downfall.'
Leon's gaze drifted to the shadows of the room. Moonlight filtered through the cracked shutters, painting silver streaks across the wooden floor. It didn't illuminate much, but it was enough. Enough to remind him that tomorrow, the first moves would be made.
He smiled faintly—a ghost of amusement that didn't reach his eyes.
"I'll make sure I'm ready. Every step. Every mistake they make… I'll be ready."
He leaned back, letting his head rest against the wall. The night was quiet, but for him, it was alive with anticipation. Every sound, every flicker of shadow, was a note in the symphony he would soon conduct.
"And Jack," he added softly, a hint of irony in his tone, "thank you for keeping me grounded."
'Don't thank me. I'm just the reminder of what you already are.'
Leon's lips twitched. "Fair enough. But you make one hell of a reminder."
---
The stranger stepped out into the night. The streets were quiet, lit only by the dim glow of lanterns swinging from wrought-iron posts. Cobblestones glistened with the residue of rain earlier in the day, reflecting shards of light like scattered gems.
He moved with purpose, yet carefully. His boots made only faint sounds against the stone, blending with distant carriage wheels and the occasional shout from a drunken passerby. Every shadow caught his attention, every subtle movement across his peripheral vision noted but dismissed if it posed no threat.
Ahead, the Raven Merchant Auction House loomed.
Its high walls and arched windows gleamed faintly in the moonlight, like the bones of some elegant beast. Word had reached him earlier: the auction would happen tomorrow, and it was expected to draw the elite of the kingdom—guild enforcers, private collectors, even representatives from the royal house.
But tonight, the house was quiet.
He slowed, crouched slightly, and surveyed the perimeter. Guards patrolled in predictable patterns, their lanterns cutting arcs through the dark.
"Did you see that?" one of them whispered, pointing toward the shadows near the eastern gate.
"See what?" the other replied, yawning.
"I thought I saw… never mind. Probably just a cat."
The stranger smiled faintly beneath his hood. 'Patterns were predictable,' he thought. 'Predictable movements meant he could calculate every blind spot before the real work began.'
From a nearby alley, two street merchants spoke in hushed tones, leaning close as if someone might overhear.
"Did you hear what happened at Duke Halvric's manor?" the first said, glancing over his shoulder.
"Yeah," the second replied, eyes wide. "The hunters nearly caught whoever caused the explosion. Lucky bastards got away."
"Imagine that," the first murmured, shaking his head. "They say the intruder just… vanished."
The stranger crouched lower, adjusting the straps of his cloak. His hands hovered over the small arsenal at his side: throwing knives, a smoke vial, lockpicks, a coiled wire garrote. Tools meant for silence and misdirection.
He allowed the street's ambient noises to guide his movements, slipping past blind spots and darkened alleys with the ease of a shadow.
A group of city guards rounded the corner, unaware of his presence.
"Why do I always get stuck on the quiet streets?" one muttered.
"Maybe because the loud ones are already dead," the other answered flatly.
The stranger flicked his hand subtly, and a faint, silvery shimmer traced the edge of one of his knives. Not enough to be noticed—just enough to remind himself that tonight, he could be fast. Precise. Unseen.
From this vantage, he observed the calm before the storm: the quiet streets, the shadows of the auction house, the patrols moving in steady rhythms. Everything would matter tomorrow, and he intended to know every detail before the chaos began.
And somewhere in the dark, Leon waited—red eyes and restless memories, a storm dressed in a gentleman's coat.
The stranger took one last look at the auction house, then melted back into the night.
He had his part to play.
And come tomorrow, he would play it perfectly.