The city's edges smelled of rust, salt, and smoke—both the ordinary kind from chimneys and the hidden kind that whispered of death.
Ren moved along the riverfront streets, low on the crumbling sidewalks, a shadow within shadows. Purple haze curled around his boots, unseen to anyone, blending with the industrial fog that hung over the docks. In his backpack were the tools, the Cloaks' orders, and the quiet inevitability of violence.
The target was insignificant in society's eyes: minor corporate middlemen with connections to political corruption, the kind whose absence might rattle balance but not attract the heroes' attention. Perfect for a small shadow operation.
Fang and Grave flanked him, their presence taut and silent, keeping him from ever feeling truly alone. He could feel their observation as much as their loyalty—trust forged not through friendship but through shared darkness.
---
A narrow alley led to the building housing the targets. Windows were barred, guards scarce but alert. The smell of cheap machinery oil and cigarette smoke filled the corridor. Ren crouched low, fingertips brushing the damp bricks, releasing thin tendrils of his smoke.
It moved like water, slipping around edges, creeping under doors, whispering through vents. Every step, every breath was calculated. The streetlights above flickered, their artificial glow barely piercing the purple mist.
Through the haze, Ren could hear the muffled conversation inside—laughter, murmurs, arguments about ledgers and shipments. Ordinary people. Yet ordinary was a luxury he could not afford to respect.
He paused at the corner. Thoughts surfaced, unbidden. Ordinary. They have lives. Why am I here, killing them? The memory hit sharply—his mother's screams, the flames, the mocking of neighbors, the jeers of childhood friends. Rage and shame twisted inside him, almost slipping into hesitation.
Fang's hand brushed his shoulder, subtle, reminding him: action, not contemplation. He inhaled, letting the smoke thicken, compress, and coil around the building like living shadows.
---
A guard stepped out, a cigarette dangling from lips. Ren's sickle sliced silently through the air, catching him across the throat. No scream, only a wet hiss as he collapsed into shadow.
The interior was a maze of corridors and offices. Ren moved with precision, smoke curling around corners to obscure vision, suffocating sound, and muffling footsteps. He planted small devices along doors, locks, and ventilation to ensure escape routes and prevent reinforcements.
The targets huddled in a small office, arguing over reports. One looked up at the soundless intrusion, then froze as the purple fog seeped under the door. Panic flared in their eyes. Ren stepped inside, sickles in hand, pistol at his side.
"Stay calm," he said softly, almost conversationally. But the undertone was unmistakable: death walked with him.
One man lunged for the phone. The first sickle pierced his wrist, spinning him back into the desk. Splintered wood and blood painted the air. The second sickle found the other's shoulder, sending him to the floor with a strangled cry. Ren's movements were precise, practiced, surgical.
Purple smoke thickened, curling around throats, lungs, eyes. Coughs, gagging, the metallic tang of blood, the quiet crack of panic. He worked silently, observing, learning. He was not a hero. He was not righteous. He was smoke.
---
For a moment, a hand grazed the edge of a young clerk's hair, brushing down his neck. The clerk's eyes were wide, pleading, innocent. Ren hesitated—half a heartbeat. Memory surged: childhood laughter turned jeers, the smell of burning wood, mother's face twisted in terror.
Do I become this? he thought.
The smoke answered for him. It flowed, pressed, and consumed. The clerk collapsed, coughing, eyes rolling, as Ren adjusted the fog, making certain the incapacitation was complete but silent. He looked at the wreckage of the office, blood stains on paperwork, shattered furniture, panic frozen mid-motion, and felt the faintest pang of revulsion—but it was buried immediately beneath habit, calculation, and the knowledge that hesitation could kill him.
Fang and Grave completed the periphery sweep. Not a soul had survived outside of Ren's design. No alarms. No reinforcements. The mission's precision was flawless.
---
Crates were packed quietly in the center of the room. Purple fog masked the noise, ensuring nothing carried beyond the threshold of their operations. Every item labeled, sealed, and ready for transport.
Ren's gaze lingered on the windows—no one watching, no patrols passing. Perfect. Yet the edge of awareness tugged at him, a whisper that this night, like every night, could turn in an instant.
Fang gestured; Grave's skeletal hand indicated the extraction route. Ren led the way, smoke hugging walls and stairwells, concealing them as they moved toward the waiting van. Not a word passed, though the rhythm of silent communication pulsed between the three.
And then, at the far end of the corridor, faint and glimmering through the mist, a golden shimmer.
Not enough to illuminate, not enough to make form—just a ripple of light, ephemeral, fleeting. Ren froze. Reflexively, hand hovering over sickle.
Golden. Mid-range. Light-based. Not fully visible, but perceptible.
He narrowed his eyes. Recognition did not flare, only curiosity—and caution. Another patrol? Or a watcher? The city's pulse seemed to stutter around him. He did not move. Not yet.
---
The van awaited outside, engine idling softly, unaware of the shadows sliding toward it. Ren moved with the smoke, compressed it to cover entrances, and eased the crates in. Every motion was taut with anticipation.
He sensed the golden shimmer again—closer this time, now at the edge of vision. Was it a hero? A rival organization? Or some civilian who stumbled upon the wrong place at the wrong time?
He paused, assessing, calculating. One wrong move, one misjudged step, and the night could turn into chaos. Blood, smoke, screams—the kind that would stain memory permanently.
Fang's eyes flicked toward him. No words. Grave's skeletal form shifted, alert. Shadows braced, coiled like predators.
Ren exhaled slowly. The fog followed him, tendrils coiling around his hands, slipping under doors, concealing motion, erasing sound. The crates were secure. But the eyes watching from the distance—golden, faint, almost spectral—remained unresolved.
---
As the van pulled away, merging into the city's veins, Ren cast a glance over his shoulder. Purple mist lingered briefly in the night, curling upward, revealing nothing, promising everything.
Somewhere in the distance, the golden shimmer persisted, subtle but undeniable. The observer did not approach, yet their presence hummed with intent.
Ren's fingers twitched over his sickle, mind calculating, heart steady.
The night was far from over.