The rainfall in the city never felt clean. It just moved the grime from the skyscrapers down to the gutters.
Lucian Shade adjusted the collar of his coat, blending into the charcoal shadows of the alleyway. In the underworld, his name was a myth—a ghost that turned 'righteous' politicians into headlines and gang lords into cautionary tales. He had dismantled the Ivory Syndicate, snuffed out the Red Dragon triads, and silenced the "Vanguard of Virtue" when their holiness turned out to be a front for human trafficking.
Tonight was the final piece of the puzzle. The Apex.
The target was the High Overlord of the unified gangs, a man who sat on a throne of bone and hush-money. Lucian had spent months on the preparation. He knew the guard rotations, the structural weaknesses of the penthouse, and the exact blend of rare toxins needed for the Overlord's nightly herbal tea.
He slipped through the ventilation like a draft of cold air. The penthouse was silent.
''Something is off.''
The scent of copper hung in the air—fresh blood, but not from his target. Lucian moved toward the office, his boots making zero sound on the plush carpet. On the floor behind the mahogany desk lay the man who had hired him. His employer's throat had been opened with surgical precision.
''The variable. He knew I was coming before I even accepted the contract.''
But the gears were already turning. The Overlord was in the lounge, his back to the door, sipping from a porcelain cup. Lucian didn't hesitate. He emerged from the dark like a jagged blade, his combat knife sweeping in a silent, lethal arc toward the man's jugular.
The blade bit deep. Blood sprayed. But the Overlord didn't collapse.
A hand like a vice clamped around Lucian's throat. The man was a giant, his eyes bloodshot and manic, fueled by some chemical or sheer spite. He wasn't dying; he was thrashing. He slammed Lucian into the glass wall, the structure spider-webbing under the impact.
"You... little... rat..." the Overlord wheezed, his grip tightening until Lucian's vision blurred.
Lucian drove his secondary blade into the giant's forearm, twisting the steel. A guttural roar echoed through the suite.
"Intruder! Get in here!"
The doors burst open. Submachine guns flared in the dark. Lucian felt the hot sting of lead tearing through his shoulder and side. He kicked off the Overlord's chest, crashing through the weakened glass.
He fell.
The cold air rushed past him, a dizzying descent from the height of the city. He hit the river below—a miracle of physics—but his blood was already painting the water a dark, heavy crimson. He dragged himself onto the muddy bank, his lungs burning, the sounds of sirens fading into the distance.
He crawled through the brush until he reached the edge of a hidden waterfall on the outskirts of the city. He collapsed against the trunk of a lone, ancient tree. The rushing water was the only sound left.
''So this is it. No more shadows. No more contracts.''
He looked up at the moon, his breath hitching in his chest. His hands were soaked, the heat leaving his body.
"This was quite peaceful," he whispered.
The waterfall roared, a white veil of mist catching the moonlight. Lucian closed his eyes, the weight of a thousand sins finally feeling light.
Waaaaah!
The sound was piercing. It grated against his eardrums like a serrated blade.
''Shut up. I'm trying to stay dead.''
Lucian tried to move his hand to rub his eyes, but his arm felt like a lead weight—clumsy and short. His vision was a chaotic blur of colors and shapes. He felt a strange warmth, a soft fabric pressing against his skin, and the smell of lavender and woodsmoke.
"Look at him, Silas. He has your eyes," a soft, feminine voice whispered.
A massive silhouette leaned into his field of vision. A man with hair as black as a raven's wing and eyes that held a sharp, disciplined spark looked down at him. Beside him, two smaller figures—toddlers with wide, curious eyes—peered over the edge of his wooden cradle.
"Mommy, Daddy, is this our new brother?" one of the girls asked, her voice brimming with excitement.
Lucian stared. His heart hammered against his ribs—a tiny, fast-thumping heart. He tried to demand an explanation, to ask where the hell the waterfall went and who these people were.
"Goo... gooda... da!"
He froze. The sound that came out of his mouth was a pathetic, gurgling mess of saliva and nonsense.
''What? No. No, no, no.''
He looked at his hands again. They weren't the scarred, calloused hands of an assassin. they were pudgy, pink, and dimpled at the knuckles.
''I'm a... I'm an infant.''
The man, Silas, reached down and gently poked Lucian's cheek with a finger the size of Lucian's entire arm.
"He looks a bit confused, doesn't he?" Silas laughed, a deep, rumbling sound. "Don't worry, little Lucian. You're safe here."
The two girls giggled, reaching out to touch his feet.
Lucian squeezed his eyes shut. The #1 Assassin in the world was currently being poked by toddlers and had zero bladder control. If he showed even a hint of his true nature, he'd be a freak—or worse.
''Fine. I'll play along. I'll be the perfect, quiet little brat.''
He forced a toothless, vacant smile and let out a soft, intentional coo.