The city was drowning in twilight, the neon glow of street signs barely cutting through the thick mist that clung to the alleyways. Kyle pulled the hood of his jacket lower, his breath misting in the cold night air. His heartbeat was steady, calm—too calm for someone being hunted.
He heard them before he saw them. Boots crunching against gravel. A whisper of steel being drawn.
"Found you."
Kyle turned, a smirk tugging at his lips. A group of men in tactical gear emerged from the darkness, their weapons gleaming under the dim streetlights. The insignia on their shoulders was unmistakable. The Order. The same group that had been chasing him for months.
"You're persistent, I'll give you that," Kyle muttered, rolling his shoulders. "But I was kinda hoping for a night off."
"Come quietly," one of the agents ordered, stepping forward. "You know how this ends if you resist."
Kyle tilted his head, cracking his knuckles. A sharp, crimson glow pulsed from his fingertips, and in the blink of an eye, blood dripped from his palm—then solidified. The liquid coiled and reshaped, forming into a jagged crimson blade in his grip.
The agent hesitated. "Tch. Freak."
Kyle's smirk widened. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
Then he moved.
The first agent barely had time to raise his weapon before Kyle was upon him, his blood-forged blade slicing through the air. The man dodged, but not fast enough—his rifle was cleaved in half. Gunfire erupted around them, but Kyle was already shifting, his blade dissolving back into liquid before re-forming into dual daggers.
He weaved through the chaos like a phantom, his weapons an extension of himself. A flick of his wrist sent a blood spike flying, embedding into the shoulder of an attacker. A twist of his body, and he slammed his foot into another's chest, sending him crashing into a dumpster.
The last man standing aimed his pistol. Kyle sighed.
"Really? You're still trying?"
Before the agent could pull the trigger, a chain of blood wrapped around his wrist, yanking him forward. Kyle met his terrified gaze.
"Bad luck," Kyle whispered. Then he knocked the guy out cold.
Silence returned to the alley, broken only by Kyle's slow, steady breaths. He glanced at the unconscious bodies around him, then shook his head. "You guys need better training."
Then, a soft noise. A breath. A presence.
Kyle turned, his body tensing. A figure stood at the edge of the alley, watching him. Gia.
Her expression was unreadable, her hazel eyes reflecting the streetlights.
"…Kyle," she whispered.
For the first time that night, Kyle hesitated.
"Gia," he murmured back.
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