The city never truly slept.
Its veins pulsed with light from skyscrapers and neon billboards, streams of vehicles moving like molten metal through the streets below. The faint hum of distant machinery, the murmur of late-night wanderers, the whisper of wind through alleys—these were the sounds that made the night alive.
But to Ren, the city spoke in a different tongue. It was a map of opportunity, danger, and death. From the rooftop of a crumbling warehouse, he watched it all, a solitary figure in black, purple smoke curling around his form like a cloak of its own.
"Another night, another corpse," he muttered under his breath. Smoke drifted from his fingertips, vanishing into the city fog. His mask reflected the glow of distant billboards—Solarius' golden smile flashing in repetition. Ren clenched his jaw. The Number One Hero's face stared back at him everywhere, a permanent reminder of failure, hypocrisy, and a world that had chewed him up and spat him out.
Beneath him, hero patrols moved in squads, mechanical eyes scanning, energy pulses humming softly from their Idols. None would notice him—not yet. Not with the smoke.
---
A soft vibration in his earpiece drew his attention. His two companions were already waiting at the alley's edge, shadows within shadows. The skeletal one's fingers flexed subtly, the broad one tapped his mask in rhythm. Silence was their language. They required no words.
"Target location," Ren whispered. His voice was low, cold, but carried the precision of habit. "A Hero Academy trainee. Patrols are minimal, but caution is advised. Expected Idol: light-based manipulation, rank mid-level."
The Veil's instructions had been succinct—eliminate, capture, or destabilize. No theatrics, no personal gratification. Just results.
Ren flicked a hand; the purple haze rolled forward, engulfing their path. It moved like liquid, shifting to obscure shadows and extinguish light, softening footsteps, dampening sounds. The city became a haze within haze, reality folding into smoke.
He inhaled, focusing. Calculation was second nature, a reflex. The streets below, the walls, the patrol routes—they all fell into patterns in his mind. One wrong step, one unexpected civilian, one stray spark of light, and the mission would be compromised.
"Let's move," he murmured. The Cloaks obeyed, sliding silently behind him.
---
The trainee appeared at the intersection, unaware, hooded, walking briskly toward a supply depot. Ren watched, noting his Idol's energy signatures—subtle golden sparks lighting his movements, a radiant shimmer across his skin. Mid-ranked, inexperienced, careless in his confidence.
Ren crouched on a fire escape above, smoke twisting around his legs like sentient tendrils. A thought flickered—he remembered what it felt like to be humiliated for weakness. To be laughed at for producing only smoke. A small, bitter smile touched his lips.
He dropped silently behind the trainee. Smoke enveloped the man, dense and choking, yet controlled. Every exhale, every swirl was precise, calibrated to suffocate without wasting energy.
The trainee flinched, panic rising. "Who—what—?"
Ren's sickles appeared in his hands, glinting faintly beneath the haze. One hooked the wrist, the other slipped across the shoulder. The pistol followed instinctively, firing a single, muffled shot that sent the man sprawling.
Shouts rose in the distance. Another patrol? No. Civilians. Ren's heart didn't skip; it didn't even quicken. The smoke rose thicker, purple fog blotting out everything, and the two Cloak companions moved with him, securing the target and disabling potential witnesses.
The trainee struggled, his hands glowing faintly. Light-based attacks flickered into the smoke but were absorbed, diffused, neutralized by Ren's control. Within moments, he was immobilized, captured, and ready to be delivered to the Cloaks' black market labs.
The mission completed, Ren stepped back, letting the smoke fade into the city. Purple mist curled into the night, dissolving into emptiness, leaving only silence and the faint coppery tang of blood.
---
Far across the city, another figure moved. Akihiro. Radiant Body. He patrolled the same district, unaware that the smoke that clouded his path carried the hand of Shade.
Ren caught a glimpse of golden light through the haze—Akihiro's Idol energy. A spark of recognition flared, buried under years of suppressed anger. Their paths had crossed once before, though neither remembered fully. One day, Ren promised himself, he would show this "symbol of hope" exactly who he had underestimated.
For now, though, he melted further into the night, ghostlike, leaving only whispers and smoke behind.
---
Hours later, Ren returned to the apartment he shared with his sister. The city's distant hum followed him inside, a constant reminder of the world he could never truly touch.
"Welcome home, nii-san!" she called from the living room, frail but smiling. Her scar gleamed faintly in the lamp's light. "Did you bring anything from work today?"
Ren forced a soft chuckle. "Something for dinner." He placed the small bag on the counter, then sank into a chair.
They shared a quiet meal, talking of trivial things. She asked about her studies; he deflected questions about friends and work. Every smile she offered, every innocent question, was a dagger to the past he had buried beneath smoke and blood.
Afterward, he lit a cigarette on the balcony. Purple haze mingled with the city fog, curling upward in lazy spirals. He thought of the trainee—another body delivered, another mind stripped, another step deeper into the darkness.
He thought of Akihiro, golden and radiant, and felt a chill. The rivalry that would define their lives had begun in silence, masked by years of separation.
And he thought of his sister. Her faith in him, her trust, her belief that he was still the hero she needed…
A bitter laugh escaped him. "The hero?" he muttered. "I'm just...
---
From the television in the background, a news report drew his attention. Images of missing heroes flashed, intercut with footage of the Shrouds' first public attacks—burned scripture, marked victims, whispers of prophecy.
Ren's sister watched silently, her eyes wide. "Are they… monsters?"
He exhaled smoke into the night, his face hidden behind a mask of thought. "Worse," he said softly. "People."
A long pause. Then:
"One day," he whispered to himself, voice thin but sharp, "I'll make sure the world remembers why smoke can burn."
Purple tendrils drifted into the darkness, disappearing into the city that never slept.