The night was heavy with fog, but the smoke curling through the alleyway didn't belong to the weather.
It was Ren's—dense, purple haze bleeding from his hands as if it had a will of its own.
The city's industrial quarter was asleep, machinery silenced after long hours of labor, but three figures moved in silence between the shadows. Black coats, bleeding-flower insignia faint against the dim light, and masks hiding their faces. Cloaks. Predators of the night.
At the front was Ren, his hood drawn low. His two companions followed in silence—one tall and skeletal with sharp shoulders, the other broad, his mask shaped like a cracked porcelain grin. They said nothing, as they always did. Ren didn't mind. Silence was a language he spoke better than words.
Their target was patrolling just ahead—a mid-ranked hero whose name would never be remembered. He wore the standard armor of the Association: light plating, visor, a badge declaring him "Protector." He was alone. A mistake.
Ren crouched on the roof's edge, cigarette dangling from his lips. His breath curled into the night, blending with the smoke slowly spreading below.
"Cut his sight. Keep it clean." His voice was low, almost detached.
The skeletal one gave a short nod, stepping back into the dark. The broad one cracked his knuckles.
Ren exhaled. Purple fog rolled outward, spilling like ink across the pavement. The hero's visor flickered, warning alarms blaring inside his helmet.
"What—? Gas?" His voice rang out, tense, already pulling up a communicator.
But the haze was too thick. The world dimmed into nothing but shifting violet. His movements grew frantic. The Cloaks moved like hunters, footsteps soundless on metal beams.
Ren dropped from the roof, sickles glinting faintly in his hands. The smoke parted around him as though bowing to its master. He didn't lunge wildly. No theatrics. Just a single swift slash to the back of the knee.
The hero buckled, shouting, trying to flare his Idol. Sparks of energy cracked around his gauntlets.
Ren didn't give him the chance. The second sickle hooked into his shoulder, dragging him off balance. Purple haze filled his lungs, choking him, suffocating the strength from his body.
A single shot cracked the silence—Ren's pistol pressed against the visor. The hero convulsed once, then fell limp, smoke curling from the bullet hole.
Silence followed. The only sound was the faint hiss of machinery far below, and Ren's cigarette burning shorter in his mouth.
He stepped back, wiping his blade on the man's cloak. "Bag him."
The skeletal one,Fang, lifted the body without complaint, as if it weighed nothing. The broad one,Grave, carried the helmet. Together, they slipped back into the shadows, Ren following last.
The smoke dissolved slowly, leaving behind only the faint stench of blood and ash.
---
The Cloaks' base was buried beneath the city—hidden in plain sight, layered under abandoned factories and forgotten tunnels. Dim lights flickered overhead, illuminating the long hall that stretched into darkness.
Men in black suits moved like clockwork, their bleeding-flower insignias stitched on their backs. They carried crates, weapons, even bodies. The air reeked of metal and antiseptic, humming with low machinery.
The captured hero was dumped unceremoniously onto a steel table. Surgeons in masks descended, already preparing their instruments.
Ren watched without expression as they strapped the body down. Glass canisters lined the walls, filled with strange, glowing fluids. Some contained fragments of organs. Others—shriveled things that looked half-human, half-shadow.
He turned away before the process began. He didn't need to see the details. He'd seen it enough times.
The room hushed as another figure entered.
The Veil.
He moved like smoke given form—robes trailing behind him, his mask pale and expressionless, carved with a single vertical line down the center. His presence was suffocating, a weight that pressed on the lungs. Even Ren's companions bowed their heads slightly.
The Veil's voice was soft, melodic. "Another hero stripped of their mask. Society bleeds, petal by petal." His gloved hand hovered over the captured man's chest. The body convulsed. A faint, glowing wisp rose from it—beautiful, fragile, like a spirit torn free.
The Veil inhaled it through his palm. The glow vanished. The hero sagged, lifeless, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling.
The leader's gaze shifted, settling on Ren. Even through the mask, Ren felt the weight.
"You cut cleanly," the Veil said. "You understand necessity."
Ren lowered his eyes. "He was careless. Nothing more."
The Veil chuckled softly, like silk tearing. "Smoke hides, smoke suffocates, smoke clings. But even smoke cannot escape the wind. Remember that, Shade."
Ren's jaw tightened beneath his mask. He bowed slightly. "Yes, sir."
The Veil moved on, disappearing into the shadows. The room exhaled as if released from a grip.
Ren left without a word.
---
Outside, the city lights flickered faintly against the night. Ren leaned against a crumbling wall, cigarette glowing in his hand. He inhaled deeply, watching the smoke curl upward, mingle with the night, and vanish.
It was always the same. Kill. Deliver. Smoke another cigarette to remind himself he was still alive.
He didn't kill for pleasure. Not for revenge—not yet. He killed because there was no path left for him to walk.
"You wanted to be a hero," he muttered under his breath. The words tasted bitter. "Now you're just smoke."
The ember burned down to nothing. He flicked it away and walked.
---
The apartment door creaked softly as Ren pushed it open. Inside, the air smelled faintly of herbs and clean linen. Warm. Alive.
"Welcome back, nii-san!"
Her voice was soft but bright, filling the small space with light no cigarette could mimic. His sister sat up on the couch, blanket draped over her legs, a book open in her hands. The left side of her face bore the burn scar, faintly silver in the lamp's glow, but her smile was radiant.
Ren's mask was gone. He never wore it here. He set his bag down, voice softer than it had been all night. "Did you eat?"
"I waited for you," she said. "We should eat together."
He sighed, but his lips curved faintly. "You'll get sick if you keep skipping meals."
They cooked together—simple rice and vegetables, the only thing her health allowed. She teased him about being clumsy with the knife. He teased her for being bossy. For a moment, the world outside didn't exist.
As they ate, she asked, "Did you talk to anyone at school today?"
Ren froze for a fraction of a second. Then he smiled. "No. You know me. I don't really stand out."
She pouted. "You should make friends. You're always alone."
"Not true," he said lightly, tapping her forehead. "I have you."
She laughed. The sound soothed something in him he didn't know was aching.
After dinner, she turned on the TV. A broadcast filled the screen—Hero Academy coverage. A crowd of cheering students, flashing lights, cameras.
At the center stood Akihiro. Radiant Body. His skin glowed faintly with golden light, his smile cocky, his voice carrying confidence.
"I'll be the one to surpass the Number One Hero!" he declared, the crowd erupting. "Watch me. I'll become the hope this country deserves!"
Ren's sister's eyes lit up. "He's amazing, isn't he? You should be like him, Nii-san."
The smile on Ren's lips didn't falter, but inside, something twisted sharp and cruel. He rose from the couch, muttering, "I need some air."
On the balcony, he lit another cigarette. The night was silent, smoke rising slowly into the void.
His reflection in the glass door looked back at him—eyes tired, face shadowed. He hated it. Hated himself.
"One day," he whispered, smoke curling from his lips, "I'll drag him down from that stage."
The ember glowed in the dark, burning steady.