The rain had softened into a drizzle by the time Arkellin stepped back into the night.
The city smelled different now—less like smoke and neon, more like wet iron. It clung to his nostrils, metallic, raw, mixing with the copper taste still lingering on his tongue. His jacket hung heavy against him, soaked through, the leather torn where bullets had kissed him hours before. Every step carried the echo of those wounds, yet his body moved with a strength he shouldn't have had.
The map pin from the message glowed faintly on the cracked screen of his phone. A blinking red dot, taunting him. He didn't need the directions; his feet carried him by instinct, deeper into Aurelia's underbelly. Each turn pulled him farther from the bright avenues into narrower streets where the neon failed to reach.
Here, the world was shadows and rust.
Water dripped from broken gutters. A stray cat bolted across his path, splashing through a puddle that reflected the glow of a dying streetlamp. The lamp buzzed once, sputtered, then dimmed to a sickly amber. His boots struck wet pavement in rhythm with the drizzle overhead, a steady thunk, thunk, that matched the low drum of his pulse.
The alley pinched tighter. Old brick walls leaned close, scarred with graffiti and grime. The smell shifted—trash soured in bins left too long, the sharp sting of gasoline from a mechanic's shop shuttered hours ago.
He wasn't alone.
Arkellin knew it before he saw them. The silence was too deliberate. The street too empty. The hum of the city had thinned to a hush, as though the storm itself was holding its breath.
He stopped, letting the drizzle bead across his forehead and run down the streak of white in his hair. His hand brushed against his side, feeling the outline of the knife still tucked at his boot. His pistol was gone—lost in the alley where he had died. But it didn't matter.
From the shadows ahead, movement.
One. Two. Three figures stepped out of the narrow cut between buildings. Their boots slapped water, their jackets heavy with chains and patches of a local gang. The first carried a length of chain looped through his fists, links clinking in rhythm with his steps. The second rolled a knife across his knuckles, the blade catching a lick of neon. The third held a baseball bat wrapped in tape, shoulders squared as if itching to swing.
They spread across the mouth of the alley like a wall.
Behind him, another sound—the creak of leather, the whisper of steel being drawn. Arkellin turned his head just enough to see two more shadows slide into place, blocking his exit.
Five men. Circle closing.
He drew a slow breath, lungs tight, then exhaled through his nose. The drizzle tapped on metal above, the only clock counting the moment. His heart didn't race. It pulsed steady, almost measured.
The man with the chain spat to the side, voice rough. "You don't look so dead to me."
Arkellin didn't answer. His eyes swept them, one by one, mapping distance, weapons, stance. The angles etched themselves into his mind the way Kindrake once read balance sheets—cold, exact. Five men. Two flanking left, one heavy at the back, two impatient at the front.
"You're supposed to be lying cold in that alley," the one with the knife sneered, flashing rotten teeth. He twirled the blade once, then pointed it at Arkellin's chest. "But maybe we get to finish it ourselves."
Arkellin tilted his head slightly. The neon caught his eyes, black but alive, and for the first time the gangsters faltered under that stare.
He didn't move. Not yet.
Instead, he shifted his weight forward a half-step, boots crunching glass underfoot. His voice cut low, quiet enough that the drizzle nearly swallowed it:
"Then try."
The word hung in the damp air, heavier than any shout.
The man with the bat grinned, mistaking calm for weakness. He stepped forward, bat rising. The chain rattled, the knife gleamed, the circle closed tighter.
Arkellin let the rain drip once more from his hair, his fingers flexing open, ready. He could feel it—the split second before violence. The quiet edge of the storm before it breaks.
And when it broke, he was ready.
The first swing came fast.
The bat whistled through the damp air, cutting for Arkellin's ribs. He leaned sideways—not a desperate dodge, but a precise slip that shaved inches from the blow. The bat slammed into the wall, sending a crack through old brick. Dust rained down.
Arkellin's elbow shot forward, sharp as iron, driving into the man's jaw. Bone clicked. The gangster reeled, teeth clattering against tongue, spit flying into the drizzle.
The others surged.
The chain lashed out, links hissing. Arkellin pivoted, shoulder dropping, letting the length of steel pass across his back. His hand shot up, catching it mid-swing. The impact burned his palm, but he twisted, yanking hard. The man on the other end stumbled forward into Arkellin's rising knee. Cartilage crunched.
A knife flashed in the corner of his eye. Arkellin spun, shoving the chain man away and bringing his forearm up just as the blade carved for his stomach. Metal met flesh—shallow, glancing, but it scored a line across his sleeve. Pain stung sharp, hot. His body moved before thought: his other hand snapped forward, palm smashing the knife wielder's nose. Blood sprayed, warm against the drizzle.
Two down, three circling.
Arkellin's mind sharpened. He saw everything at once—the way the bat man was still shaking off the elbow, the way the knife man clutched his face but refused to fall, the way the two behind him were adjusting their stance, waiting for an opening.
This wasn't chaos. It was a board. And he was moving the pieces.
He let his right hand drift to the broken bottle on the ground. Fingers curled around the jagged neck. The glass bit into his palm, but he welcomed it.
The chain came again. Arkellin ducked under it, stepping inside the man's guard. The bottle kissed the tendon of the wrist holding the chain. A single slice, shallow but placed with surgical precision. The chain slipped free as the hand spasmed, clattering onto the wet pavement.
Arkellin didn't hesitate. He hurled the broken glass low, spinning. It struck the shin of the man with the bat. He cursed, stumbled, weight dropping—perfect. Arkellin closed the gap, hooked the man's head under his arm, and drove him face-first into the brick wall. The crack of skull on stone was drowned by the hiss of the rain.
The last two moved together now, flanking, coordination in their eyes. One swung a rusted pipe, the other a short blade curved like a claw.
Arkellin's lips twitched.
The pipe swung. He stepped back, letting it cut through empty air, then kicked a puddle with full force. Water splashed into the knife-man's face. It bought him a heartbeat—just enough. Arkellin surged forward, body low, his shoulder ramming into the pipe wielder's chest. Both men hit the ground hard, the impact jolting through Arkellin's ribs.
He rolled off first, grabbing the fallen pipe. The knife came stabbing down, slicing his jacket. He trapped the wrist against the pavement with his knee, then brought the pipe down across the arm. Once. Twice. Bone cracked. The knife clattered away.
The man screamed, voice muffled by rain. Arkellin rose, pipe dripping with water and blood.
The last one—the chain wielder, nose broken, eyes wide—froze at the sight. His chest heaved, his weapon gone, his courage bleeding into the puddles.
Arkellin stepped toward him.
He didn't run. He couldn't. Fear rooted him to the ground. His eyes darted, searching for escape, but every path ended in the figure before him—black jacket, hair plastered to his face, eyes cold and alive in a way no dead man's should be.
Arkellin stopped inches away. He lifted the pipe, then let it drop to the ground with a hollow clang. His hands clenched once, then released.
He didn't need it.
The man's lips trembled. His voice cracked. "Y-you're not him. Arkellin was… Arkellin was—"
"Dead?" Arkellin's voice was a blade, quiet and sure.
The gangster nodded, frantic.
Arkellin leaned in, rain dripping from his hair, his breath steady despite the chaos around him. "Then remember this. If I'm still standing, it means I wasn't meant to stay dead."
He let the words hang there. Heavy. Final.
The man stumbled back, tripped over the body of his friend, and bolted into the darkness. His footsteps splashed away, fading into the distance, leaving only the storm and the broken groans of the men Arkellin had left behind.
Arkellin stood alone in the narrow street, chest heaving, pipe at his feet, blood mixing with rain at his boots. His hands shook—not from weakness, but from the energy still thrumming inside him, two lives bound in one pulse.
For the first time, he felt the truth in his bones:
This wasn't a resurrection. It was an evolution.
The alley was quiet except for the rain.
It fell steady now, rinsing the blood from Arkellin's knuckles, carrying it down into the cracks of the street. The air stank of iron and wet trash, sharp with the smoke of a neon sign sparking above. Three bodies writhed weakly on the ground, groaning, clutching at broken limbs. Two lay still, breath shallow but alive.
Arkellin stood among them, his chest rising slow, controlled. The drizzle plastered his hair to his forehead, dripping down the white streak like a blade glistening in stormlight. His jacket clung heavy to his frame, torn at the side where a blade had scored him earlier.
One man was still conscious—the knife wielder. He slumped against the wall, face a mask of blood, his eyes wide and shining in the dim glow. His breath rattled wet in his throat. He couldn't lift his hands, couldn't stand, but he could still speak.
And he did.
"You're not…" His voice cracked, weak. He coughed blood into the rain. "You're not the same Arkellin. You—" He swallowed, eyes darting to the others, then back to the figure standing over him. "You've changed."
Arkellin crouched slowly, knees creaking, his gaze level with the man's. For a moment, silence. Just the rain tapping on their skin, the hiss of neon dying above.
"I've become," Arkellin said softly, "what you feared I never could."
The man flinched. The words pressed heavier than fists.
His hand trembled, fumbling inside his soaked jacket. Arkellin watched, calm, not moving. The man pulled free a battered walkie-talkie, its antenna bent, static whispering through the speaker. His thumb hovered over the button.
Arkellin didn't stop him.
He leaned closer, voice barely louder than the rain. "Go ahead."
The man stared at him, horrified, then pressed down. His voice cracked through the static, carried into the night.
"B-boss… he's alive."
Static spat back, followed by silence. Then a voice, distorted but clear, filled the wet alley.
"Impossible."
The gangster's eyes went wider, darting to Arkellin's face, as if to confirm what he saw was real. Arkellin's expression didn't waver. His breath steamed in the cool night air, his eyes steady, the reflection of neon burning in them.
The radio crackled again. The same voice, lower, colder. "Bring me proof."
The knife wielder's trembling hand lowered. His chest hitched. He tried to form words, but Arkellin was already standing, the shadow of his figure cast long across the alley.
Arkellin's voice carried, calm and certain, every syllable heavy as thunder:
"You wanted proof?" He let his hand curl into a fist, blood and rain dripping from his knuckles. "Then hear me. If I live, it means every one of you is already dead."
The man's mouth opened, but no sound came. His eyes rolled back, body sliding sideways into unconsciousness, the walkie-talkie dropping into the puddle beside him.
The static hissed on.
Arkellin turned, the storm at his back, and walked deeper into the city.
Behind him, the rain washed away the last traces of the fight, but not the echo that lingered in the air:
"He's alive."