The afternoon sun beat down on the cobbled streets of Sanctumhaven.
People were heading home after midday prayers — some rushing for lunch, others seeking a quiet nap, and many just lingering, their chatter a soft hum in the humid air.
Amidst the noise and motion, a sharply dressed man walked with a focused, almost predatory purpose. He wore a long, dark coat, polished black shoes that gleamed even on the dusty pavement, and a dark hat that cast a deep shadow over his face, obscuring his features. A sleek, heavy suitcase, a dark promise, swung with each measured step. He looked like a businessman late for a meeting, or perhaps a government official on a tight, unscheduled mission.
But instead of continuing through the bustling marketplace, he veered abruptly into a quieter, narrower street — a forgotten vein of the city most avoided.
The pathway grew narrower with each step. Fewer shops, their windows grimy and vacant. Fewer people, just shadows lurking in recessed doorways. The air soured, growing thick and heavy.
This was the edge of the slums — where garbage festered in overflowing bins, where the cloying stench of piss, stale vomit, and cheap alcohol mixed into a choking, oppressive cloud. Homeless beggars and twitching junkies slumped in corners, half-asleep, or perhaps half-dead, their eyes glazed with distant horrors. The buildings leaned inward, their brickwork crumbling, as if tired of holding themselves up against the weight of despair.
The man paused at the entrance, his nose wrinkling in an involuntary grimace. He tapped his smartwatch. A small, blinking arrow on the screen confirmed his grim path.
"Tch. What a fucked-up place to arrange a meeting," he muttered, his voice a low growl of disgust. "But I suppose that's all you can expect from people who've never heard of standards."
He wrapped a crisp, white handkerchief tightly around his nose, pressing it against his face like a barrier against the putrid air, and pressed on, deeper into the filth.
As he stepped deeper into the alley, the junkies stirred, roused by the disturbance, their movements sluggish, predatory.
"Sir, are you here to help…?" one mumbled, his voice hoarse, barely a whisper.
"Got any change?" another rasped, extending a trembling, claw-like hand.
"Spare something for a fellow soul?" a third whined, his eyes bloodshot and desperate.
They didn't wait for a reply. One emaciated figure, surprisingly quick, lunged forward, grabbing at his pant leg, his grip surprisingly tenacious.
Thud!
The man's polished black shoe lashed out, a swift, brutal kick. The junkie went flying, collapsing onto the grimy cobblestones like a discarded sack of rags. "Back off, you filthy rats," the man snarled, his voice laced with cold venom. "Don't touch me with your goddamn plague-ridden hands."
Sneering, he stepped over the groaning man, who lay wheezing, and continued onward. The alley narrowed even further, twisting like a diseased vein, barely allowing the passage of a single person.
Fewer people here now. Less space. Barely enough room for a body to lie down, let alone live.
And yet, someone still blocked his way.
A man — absolutely wasted — lay sprawled across the middle of the path, a grotesque obstacle. The acrid scent of alcohol hit even through the handkerchief over the visitor's nose, thick and cloying. The drunkard was retching, his body convulsing, spitting bile and froth onto the cobblestones.
"Uurrgh—!"
Another wave of foul-smelling vomit splattered onto the already stained path.
The suited man stopped dead, a disgusted gasp escaping him. "Are you fucking kidding me..." he muttered, his jaw tight.
He had no time or patience to waste on such a pathetic specimen. He stepped closer, his voice cracking like a whip.
"Hey! You disgusting piece of shit, move! Get the hell out of my way."
The drunk lifted his head, wobbling precariously, his bloodshot eyes unfocused. "Oi... what's the rush, mate? Some kid just gave me coin for a drink—generous, right?" he slurred, a lazy, unbothered smile stretching his lips, revealing stained teeth.
The suited man didn't dignify that with a reply. He shoved past him, a grunt of impatience escaping him, not bothering to look back. He had a schedule. He had standards.
Big mistake.
In that single moment — that sliver of arrogance, of dismissal — the drunk changed.
In a blink, the figure behind him surged forward with alarming, impossible speed. His hands shot around the suited man's neck, locking in a precise chokehold — tight, clean, brutally efficient, almost military in its execution. The air was instantly squeezed from the man's lungs.
The man struggled. His expensive leather suitcase clattered to the ground. He kicked, clawed at the unyielding grip, a choked gasp caught in his throat — but the iron vise didn't falter. His vision blurred, stars exploding behind his eyes. He let out a single, weak, desperate—
"Gh—hhk…"
And then went limp, his body sagging against his attacker.
The drunk — now deadly sober, his eyes sharp and calculating — released him. The suited man collapsed to the dirt with a dull, heavy thud.
"One phase complete," the attacker muttered, his voice crisp and clear now — no trace of slur or stumble. It was Edward's voice, cold and triumphant.
Quickly, he peeled off his filthy outerwear — the crusted, stained jacket, the piss-stained, patched trousers. Underneath was Edward, young and sharp-featured, his hair matted with grime from the costume, but his face undeniably handsome and alive with a chilling purpose.
He crouched beside the unconscious man and began stripping him. Coat, shirt, pants — all off, leaving only the undergarments. A quick, efficient exchange of identities.
Edward pulled the expensive suit onto himself piece by piece, savoring the feel of the fine fabric. He straightened the collar, brushed a speck of dirt from his now-clean hair, adjusted the fit.
"Hahh… finally. Free from those wretched clothes," he murmured, a genuine sigh of relief escaping him. The smell of the alley still lingered, but now it was a faint background hum beneath the crisp scent of the suit.
Now fully dressed, looking every inch the man he had just subdued, Edward glanced down at the stripped, unconscious figure.
"Well, mate," he said with a smirk, his voice low, "I appreciate all the hard work you've done. From here on, I'll take care of everything. Why don't you rest a while? A very long while."
He headed toward a nearby, overflowing dumpster, where a plastic bag was hidden beneath broken wood and cardboard. From it, he retrieved a bundle of rope, a roll of industrial-grade duct tape, and a pair of rolled-up, freshly laundered socks.
"I'm generous enough not to use worn socks," he muttered, a dry, dark chuckle escaping him. "Be grateful."
He shoved the clean sock bundle into the unconscious man's slack mouth, then duct-taped it shut with practiced efficiency. Arms and legs were tied tightly, wrists bound behind the back in meticulous knots. Edward knelt beside him, checked for breath — still alive, a faint, steady rise and fall of the chest, but no longer a problem.
He tapped the smartwatch on his newly acquired wrist. Entered the passcode he'd glimpsed in his vision, his fingers moving with perfect recall. The screen lit up, showing the pulsating destination coordinates.
He lifted the man's limp body over his shoulder, grunting slightly at the unexpected weight, and walked to a larger, more imposing trash bin at the very end of the alley. He dropped him inside with a soft thud and slammed the rusted lid shut.
"Well, friend… enjoy your rest. No one will bother you here for a good long while."
He placed a heavy stone slab over the lid for good measure, adjusted the dark hat over his head, settling it just so, and picked up the gleaming suitcase. Its weight felt right, familiar in his hand.
With one final, dismissive look down the grim alley, he turned — and walked away, dressed in stolen skin, heading toward a future that wasn't his, but was now his for the taking.
He walked with patient, unhurried steps, his eyes calmly sweeping the alleyway ahead — scanning, measuring, observing. Every detail mattered. Was anything off? Was the plan proceeding exactly as it should? Doubts, if they surfaced, drowned quickly beneath the weight of his calculated confidence. He believed in his preparation. In himself.
The path ahead twisted through narrow, uneven alleys, each turning familiar from the vision. He followed it precisely, guided by both the blinking directions on his smartwatch and the vivid flashes of déjà vu with each corner turned.
Eventually, the tight alleyway opened into a broader lane. The oppressive walls pulled back, allowing a sliver of distant sky. The stench — once overwhelming — lightened just enough to breathe without gagging. Not gone, but bearable. The space felt different here. Quieter.
Measured.
He glanced down at his watch.
2:37 PM.
Seven minutes late.
Still well within margin. He exhaled slowly, a faint plume of breath, and adjusted the collar of his coat, then leaned casually against the cold brick wall. His foot tapped softly, rhythmically, a silent countdown, as he mentally replayed the scene he'd practiced over and over in his mind. He couldn't afford to miss his mark.
He adopted the role fully now — the businessman. The middleman. A man on a job, too polished for a place like this, too sharp to belong. His face tightened into a sneer of carefully cultivated distaste. He wore the part well.
Disgust for the location. Patience for the task. Everything according to script.
A second later, Edward heard the distinct sound of approaching footsteps, heavier than the general city hum. He glanced to the side, slow and casual, his eyes narrowing as two men emerged from the shadows and walked toward him.
One wore a grey shirt, the other brown. Both had solid builds, the kind that came from hard experience, not the sterile confines of a gym. Their eyes were alert. Guarded. They moved like people who'd seen too much of the world to trust anything.
"You the guy Robert sent?" the man in the brown shirt asked, his voice low and gravelly, cutting through the thin air.
"Yeah," Edward replied flatly, his own voice carefully modulated, clipped and devoid of warmth.
"You're seven minutes late," the same man said, his tone clipped, a hint of suspicion.
Edward rolled his eyes, a subtle, practiced gesture of annoyance. "Well, maybe if you'd picked a place that wasn't crawling with junkies and piss-soaked alleys, I'd be on time."
"Hah." The man chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "Not used to places like this, huh? Call it a new experience."
"Let's just get this over with." Edward's tone conveyed absolute impatience.
"No problem. So—where's the item?"
Edward lifted the suitcase beside him slightly, allowing them a glimpse of its sleek, dark form without actually opening it. "Right here."
"Good," the man said, nodding.
"But the transaction's not complete until I see your end of the deal."
Without a word, the man in the grey shirt stepped forward. He reached into a large coat pocket and tossed a heavy duffel bag. It landed on the ground a few feet away from Edward with a dull, heavy thud — not directly in front of him. It landed off to the side.
Edward didn't move immediately. His gaze dropped to the bag.
He noticed it.
The throw was too casual. Deliberate, even. A subtle test, or a maneuver.
No offer to count. No "go ahead and check it, it's all there." No casual assurance.
Too smooth.
Too rehearsed. Exactly like the vision, but with an unsettling, amplified clarity.
But he still walked forward, stepping over the subtle line, handed over the suitcase. The other man took it without hesitation, his grip firm.
"Pleasure doing business," the man in brown said, already turning to leave, a false pleasantry.
"Let's hope it stays that way," Edward replied, his eyes fixed on the duffel, already walking toward it.
He crouched down, his hand brushing the worn canvas fabric. He lifted it. Too light. Not what he'd expected. His fingers tightened around the handle, a cold dread beginning to seep into his calculated calm.
"Wait," Edward said sharply, his voice cutting through the alley's quiet. "I'm counting every bill."
The two men stopped in place.
Their posture shifted. Slight. Subtle. Dangerous. Like coiled springs.
Edward unzipped the bag. Inside were bundles of lumen bills. Relief flickered in his chest, a momentary warmth — until he slid the first bill aside and saw the second.
Blank.
Just a piece of white paper, neatly cut and stacked. A cruel, deliberate mockery.
His expression didn't change, the mask of the middleman held firm, but his gaze slowly, inexorably lifted from the worthless paper to the two men.
The man in the grey shirt had already drawn a gun.
Arm steady. Finger on the trigger. Pointed directly at Edward's chest.
"Things would've gone just fine," the man in brown said quietly, his earlier chuckle gone, replaced by a chilling calm. "If you'd just walked away like you were supposed to."
Bang.