Chapter 11 – The Ambush (FI)
Twilight had long faded, leaving the ruins bathed in a pale, eerie glow. The fractured city breathed in creaks and sighs, metal scraping against stone, dust drifting in currents Blake could feel before seeing. Every step was measured; every breath calculated. He had survived shadows that moved like living predators, partially manifested beasts, and the fragmented attention of observers who never truly understood him. Tonight would be no different—except the hunters were not alone.
Ahead, the narrow alley twisted between two crumbling skyscrapers, jagged steel and broken glass littering the ground. A faint hum vibrated through the air—a subtle signal only he could feel. The rival faction had anticipated his moves. A trap, set meticulously, lined with sensors, motion triggers, and the faint hum of energy-infused projectiles.
Blake stopped, crouching behind a shattered concrete wall. His weapon hummed softly against his wrist, dry commentary: "Probability of success: 0%. Engagement imminent." He allowed a dry smirk. Predictive models were nothing compared to instinct honed over decades of survival.
He scanned the alley. Three assassins were stationed in patterns, every corner watched, every approach covered. Faint footprints betrayed their movement history, dust displaced ever so slightly—a breadcrumb only a trained observer like Blake would notice. He cataloged, calculated, and formed a path.
Consumables alerted minor fatigue and dehydration. Energy levels were sufficient, but every movement would be optimized for efficiency. He adjusted posture, balanced weight, and let instinct guide him.
The first step was a glide along the fractured wall, sliding beneath the overhang of a steel beam. A small cascade of debris fell behind him, unnoticed by the enemies ahead. Shadows curled naturally along his form, concealing him further.
Micro-flashback: the first ambush he had survived, years ago, by relying not on brute strength but patience. That memory guided his every step now, a ghost of past survival whispering in precise motions.
A sudden shift of air. One assassin turned instinctively, scanning, but too late. Blake pivoted behind a pile of rubble, silent as a shadow, while the next two moved into a crossfire he had anticipated.
Weapon vibration, dry again: "Efficiency of observation exceeding predictive parameters. Human response: irrelevant." Blake ignored it, letting the enemy stumble into their own miscalculated paths.
He reached the central point of the alley, crouched atop a collapsed ventilation shaft. From this vantage, he observed every movement. Temporary alliances among the rival faction faltered, mistrust flickering in subtle gestures. Every movement, every hesitation cataloged. These details would be useful for the next engagement—or the one after.
A sudden energy flare illuminated the alley—a faint trace of residual Beast influence. The shadows twisted unnaturally, reaching toward him but failing to touch. He moved like a phantom through the debris, weaving between light and shadow, observers muttering frustration in distant channels
"The trap had been set, but the prey was already steps ahead, unseen, untouchable, and calculating the next strike."