The evening hung heavy over the city. Neon lights flickered in the shop windows, while the smell of wet asphalt lay in the air like a cold layer. Ruigh and Uhra stepped out of the small cafe where they had briefly stopped. The noise of the main street mixed with the dull hum of the wind—a sound that had always seemed to Ruigh like the quiet breathing of an unseen threat.
"You're quieter than usual," Uhra remarked, his hands buried deep in her coat pockets. Her gaze swept over him, scrutinizing.
"Maybe… I'm just listening more closely now," he answered in a toneless voice, letting his eyes sweep over the crowd. He felt it. That barely perceptible pull in the pit of his stomach. Movements on the very edge of his vision, too fast to be clearly recognized—and yet too distinct to be a coincidence. Like shadows that didn't fit the light.
They walked on until they came to a stop at a red light. The harsh glare reflected in the puddles at their feet, and for a moment, a strange, oppressive silence fell between the sounds of the engines.
Then it happened.
A black blur shot past them—fast as an arrow made only of darkness. Before they could turn their heads, something crashed onto the ground in front of them. Two bodies. No… two heads. They rolled across the asphalt, blood spraying in fine arcs as if invisible hands had torn them from their bodies like ripe fruit.
A gasping sound escaped Uhra. Ruigh's instincts screamed an alarm, and he instinctively tensed his muscles. Images from his childhood flashed through his mind—the bloody corpses of his parents. Panic threatened to consume him.
In the next second, eight masked figures had closed a ring around them. The masks gleamed dully, and metal blades on their arms and legs flashed in the light of the streetlamps.
"Shit," Uhra muttered.
Before either of them could react, something hit the ground. A smoke bomb. A acrid, grey fog exploded in all directions, swallowing the world in a single, choking cloud. Ruigh coughed, trying to make out the silhouettes—but there was only a chaos of shadows and rustling footsteps.
"UHRA!" Ruigh roared, but there was no reply.
When the fog cleared, only four of the masked figures stood before him. Uhra was gone. A cold terror gripped his throat. He was alone. Again.
The attackers charged at him. Their movements were blindingly fast, almost animalistic. The blades on their arms and legs hissed through the darkness, making sparks dance on the asphalt. The fight was like a dance with death. Ruigh retreated, every movement calculated, luring them into a narrow, dimly lit alley. Here, where the light fell in torn scraps on the ground, he was in his element. He used the same techniques that had been so deadly precise in his last fight—quick, fluid strikes that slammed the first opponent against the wall and sent him to the ground. The second fell before he even realized he had been hit.
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Uhra tore himself from the grip of his two captors. A single, precise step—and in his hand, the small black dot, floating like a hole in reality, opened. A whisper seemed to come from it, deep, infinite. He pushed the opponents inside. No scream, no blood. They were simply… gone. Uhra let out a short breath. He had known Ruigh would make it on his own.
Back to Ruigh
Only two remained. The third attacker collapsed after a blow to the throat. The last one fought like a madman, his blades hissing through the darkness, always dangerously close. But Ruigh dodged, countered, smashed his weapons—and finally, his arms.
Gasping, the man knelt before him. Ruigh's heart rate slowed. The adrenaline rush subsided, and reality returned. He reached for the mask and tore it from the man's face.
Empty, snow-white eyes stared up at him. "Must… kill the boy… Master wills it…" the man growled, over and over again, like a mantra. His body twitched uncontrollably. Ruigh's blood ran cold. These were not supernaturals. Not Espers. They had been… altered. Broken.
Then he noticed something—a folded note, pinned to the man's clothing.
Back with Uhra
His last two opponents also lay motionless on the ground. His footsteps echoed as he walked along the streets until he discovered Ruigh in the alley. He saw him holding the note.
"What do you have there?" he asked, stepping closer.
Ruigh unfolded the note. His fingers trembled slightly. He turned it so Uhra could see.
It was no text. No order.
It was a photo.
A photo of Ruigh.
And of Uhra.