The wind cut through Neo-Rīga like a sharpened blade. From the rooftop of the Imperial Military Academy, Rafael Ralfs Kaštnaovs stared down at the city lights, a sea of gold and silver that stretched farther than the eye could see. Smoke spiraled from distant factories, blending with the neon haze. To most, it was utopia; to him, it was ashes waiting to fall.
He lit a cigarette, inhaled, and let the smoke curl around his face. His green eyes, sharp and tired, scanned the streets below. They were tired—not from lack of sleep, he hadn't slept in years—but from the weight of knowing everything and feeling nothing.
"Does anyone have popcorn?" he muttered to no one, a sarcastic grin twisting the edge of his lips. Flames wouldn't bother him. Fire didn't scare him. It was the fastest way to his goal.
The red scarf around his neck, frayed and stained, whispered memories of a life he barely remembered—a fragment of someone he once loved. His coat, adorned with gold embroidery and medals, reflected the cold authority that followed him wherever he went. Every shadow seemed to bow in deference.
Rafael's world was one of control, and he was the storm. With a single flick of thought, he could ignite chaos or save lives—though he had little interest in either. Bravery? Mercy? Sentiment? Tools for the weak. And yet… perhaps, somewhere in the tangle of smoke and neon, something human still flickered.
A sudden vibration in his pocket. His custom weapon—impossibly heavy for a single man, yet perfectly balanced in his hands—signaled the incoming threat. ALFA-3 combat drones had breached the Neo-Rīga perimeter. Standard soldiers would panic. Standard Adepts might hesitate. Not Rafael.
He dropped from the rooftop, landing in a fluid motion that seemed almost too fast to track. The street erupted in sparks as his footsteps met the ground. A single breath, and his enhanced senses cataloged every enemy's position, every weakness.
He fired. One shot. Sixty kilograms of ammunition. One target—obliterated. The air tasted metallic, heavy with ozone and blood. He smiled faintly. Tvaika Smaka, the scent of regeneration, marking his presence like a phantom warning: death had arrived.
And then… he felt it. A shift. A shadow from nowhere. His pre-injection self—the digital echo known as Null Rafael—observed silently. Rational. Calculating. Cold. Detached. Not a friend, not an enemy… yet.
Rafael ignored it. There was no time for philosophical arguments tonight. Neo-Rīga would survive another evening, and he would remain, as always, unbending, untouchable, unrelenting.
The city slept, but Rafael did not. Never again.