The morning after the warehouse collapse, the city buzzed with rumors.
The underworld's quiet web of whispers carried the news faster than any media outlet could:
A phantom had crippled a major Hollow Society hub without leaving a corpse behind.
No one knew who was responsible.
But one symbol burned itself into every retelling—the crescent moon wrapped in flame.
At the Astoria Hotel, Balen Creed reviewed the flood of reports with a grim smile.
Alaric's message had been received.
Loudly.
Meanwhile, across the city —
Deep inside the Hollow Society's clandestine gathering chamber, the old guard assembled again. Their faces, usually cold and composed, were now tense masks of fury and fear.
Victor Morn slammed his fist against the marble table. "We need to strike back! We can't let one man tear us apart!"
But the woman in crimson remained silent. She studied a set of photos—the aftermath of the warehouse raid.
Not a drop of blood.
Not a body misplaced.
Every move, surgically executed.
"This isn't an amateur," she said coldly. "This is someone trained by something older than any of us remember."
The elder leaned forward, fingers tapping a slow rhythm against the table. His voice was barely a whisper, but it silenced the room.
"There is one way," he said. "We bait him."
A few exchanged glances.
"Bait him?" Victor snapped. "He's a ghost! How do you bait what you can't track?"
"You draw him to where he must act," the elder said simply. "You threaten what he values."
A cruel smile spread across Victor's face.
And the plot was set.
Later That Evening
Alaric walked the familiar streets near the industrial zone, his jacket collar turned up against the wind. The weight of his pendant brushed against his chest, a steady reminder of who he was becoming.
He was heading toward the small café he used to frequent—one of the few peaceful anchors left in his life.
But as he turned the corner, he slowed.
The street was too quiet.
Two figures stood outside the café—men in dark coats, too polished, too careful. Their stance screamed trouble.
Alaric's silver-flecked eyes narrowed slightly.
Without breaking stride, he passed them, slipping into the café as if nothing were amiss.
Inside, the place was nearly empty—except for one man seated in the corner booth.
Mason Sterling.
Alaric's jaw tightened imperceptibly.
Mason sipped his coffee, flashing a disarming smile. "Alaric. What a coincidence."
Alaric said nothing. He slid into the booth across from him, movements calm and measured.
"You're becoming a bit of a celebrity," Mason said, swirling his cup lazily. "Strange things happening in the city lately. Power shifting. Alliances crumbling. People whispering about... ghosts."
Alaric merely raised an eyebrow.
"And here I thought you were just a poor boy who married above his station," Mason said, leaning in with a smirk. "Turns out, there's more to you after all."
"You came to insult me, then?" Alaric asked quietly.
Mason chuckled. "No, no. Just to offer a word of advice."
He set his cup down with a soft clink.
"People are starting to notice you, Vane. Powerful people. Dangerous people. And they don't like what they see."
He leaned closer, his voice dropping.
"Walk away. Before you get crushed."
Alaric's smile was faint.
Almost... pitying.
"You should be more concerned for yourself, Mason," he said.
The air between them crackled with a sudden, palpable tension.
Before Mason could respond, the café door swung open again—more Hollow Society operatives slipping inside.
A trap.
Alaric rose from his seat without fear. His hand moved subtly to the pendant beneath his shirt, feeling the warmth pulse against his skin.
"You don't know what you're dealing with," Mason warned, standing too.
Alaric's gaze sharpened.
"No," he said, voice low and lethal. "You don't."
The Fight
The first attacker lunged without warning—knife flashing under the dim café lights.
But Alaric moved with supernatural precision.
One sidestep.
A wrist twist that shattered bone.
A second attacker stumbled into a chair—Alaric slammed his elbow into the man's throat without even glancing.
Three more closed in.
Still calm, Alaric used the narrow café tables as weapons—flipping one into an attacker's path, sending another sprawling with a well-placed kick to the knee that bent it sideways with a sickening crack.
Every move was effortless.
Calculated.
Devastating.
The patrons cowered under tables, watching in horrified awe as the seemingly ordinary man they had ignored for months moved with the grace of a reaper.
Mason, pale and backing away toward the door, realized too late that he had gravely misjudged the situation.
Alaric crossed the room in three strides, grabbing Mason by the collar and slamming him against the wall with a force that made the entire café shudder.
"You wanted to see the real me?" Alaric whispered, voice razor-sharp.
"Congratulations."
Mason whimpered, struggling weakly.
Alaric released him with a shove, letting him collapse onto the floor in a heap.
Turning toward the stunned crowd, Alaric said nothing. He simply walked out into the night, coat billowing like a banner behind him.
And in his wake, the legend grew larger.
Later That Night — The Safehouse
Vira and Balen listened as Alaric recounted the event, their faces grim.
"They're escalating," Vira said. "They're not just probing you anymore. They're trying to bait you into mistakes."
"They'll find," Alaric murmured, "I don't make mistakes."
He tightened the pendant around his neck, feeling the bloodline inside him surge, old and powerful.
"The Hollow Society thinks they can corner me," he said softly.
His silver-flecked eyes gleamed.
"But they've forgotten—"
"I was born to end them."