The city exhaled darkness, and with it, Ren became part of the shadows. The sun had long disappeared behind the horizon, leaving a bruised-purple sky and the faint glow of neon signs reflecting off wet streets. Night was his element, the stage where smoke and steel spoke louder than words.
Ren adjusted his jacket, ensuring the folds concealed the twin sickles strapped across his back. His pistol rested lightly in a holster beneath his arm, trigger exposed to the touch but hidden to the eye. No flamboyance, no hesitation. Just tools. Just method.
The Cloaks' message had been concise: deliver the harvested samples to a buyer at the docks. Daylight had been for observation; now the night demanded action.
---
The streets were quieter than usual, patrolled sporadically by city guards and low-tier heroes who believed night was their domain. Ren moved like a ripple of darkness, steps silent, breaths controlled, each movement calculated. The purple mist from a small smoke generator on his wrist curled around him, enough to obscure streetlights and dampen sound.
He wasn't alone. Fang and Grave—the two Cloak companions who never spoke yet communicated perfectly—shadowed him. Fang, wiry and skeletal, moved like liquid, fingers twitching subtly, ready to snatch or stab. Grave, broad-shouldered and silent, absorbed attention naturally, a shadow large enough to deter suspicion and yet silent enough not to betray their presence.
Ren's mind ran through possibilities: civilians wandering, minor patrols, stray cameras. Every alley, every wall, every pile of trash was a potential obstacle or weapon. His eyes flicked to the rooftops above, noting weak lights and vantage points. "Clean routes," he muttered softly. Fang nodded once, Grave's eyes remained impassive.
The night was a canvas, and smoke painted it in subtle violet strokes.
---
The shipping docks were alive with the hum of generators, the metallic groan of containers being moved, and the occasional barked command of night workers. Most were oblivious, heads down, focused on mundane tasks. Yet Ren could see the veins of energy, the faint residual Idols of minor guards and dockworkers, twitching in instinctive alertness.
The buyer had requested discretion. No theatrics. No unnecessary attention. Ren had learned early that discretion often involved brutality if discovered. He slid past the first checkpoint, smoke curling up in thin streams that cloaked his approach.
Fang flitted across the shadows like a wisp, moving behind crates to silently neutralize a lone patrolling worker with a chokehold. Grave's massive frame blocked the line of sight of a security camera, tilted ever so slightly with his weight. Ren moved the samples—black satchels marked with purple threads—from backpack to handcart, careful to avoid jingles or scuffs that might betray their presence.
A faint scuff echoed. A dockworker had turned, lantern in hand. Ren froze, timing measured to fractions of a second. The smoke compressed, thickened into a short wall, enveloping the man in a choking fog. He gagged, stumbled, and Fang caught him by the collar, dragging him silently behind a stack of containers. No blood, no witnesses. Efficiency.
Ren exhaled softly, barely audible. Another obstacle, handled without hesitation.
---
As they neared the delivery point, a sudden flare of golden light sliced through the mist—an unexpected patrol of minor heroes. Their Idols pulsed lightly, scanning the docks.
"Fuck," Ren muttered, eyes narrowing. The haze was now their only ally. He compressed the smoke into a dense cloud, heavy and sticky, curling like living shadows around the patrol. Visibility dropped to near zero. The first hero swung a baton through the fog, but the thick smoke dampened his energy, muffling sound and distorting perception.
Fang moved swiftly, silent as a snake, taking down the nearest target with precise strikes that broke ribs and sent unconsciousness following. Grave blocked and shoved, using brute force to deter others, absorbing blows like a moving wall. Ren's sickles appeared, slicing through tendons and arteries, small sprays of dark crimson reflecting faint neon light. He caught himself mid-step, calculating each movement, ensuring no collateral damage beyond the intended threat.
The heroes fell one by one, confusion etched on their faces, golden auras flickering dimly in disbelief. None would remember the night clearly. The fog, Ren realized, did more than obscure—it rewrote perception.
He pressed on, silent, deadly, watching the flow of bodies and lights. Each move felt like choreography, precise and brutal.
---
The buyer waited atop a container, hood pulled low, silhouette against the dock's ambient lights. Ren approached, Fang and Grave flanking, silent as death itself.
"Samples?" the buyer asked, voice rough but cautious.
Ren handed over the black satchels. "Check now," he replied, tone neutral. No smiles, no greetings. Just business.
The buyer unzipped one of the bags, revealing neatly preserved Idol fragments and minor organs—harvested and processed. His eyes widened slightly. "Good. Precise as always," he muttered. "Payment is wired. Don't linger."
Ren nodded once. Nothing more was necessary. The transaction was swift, efficient, without fanfare.
---
A sudden siren blared from the opposite dock, and the shadows shifted. Someone had triggered an alarm—a dockworker running from a distant corner.
Ren cursed softly. "Move," he ordered silently. Fang and Grave split to cover exits. Purple smoke erupted, denser than before, forming a living barrier that obscured their movements.
A group of late-shift minor heroes appeared, drawn by the alarm. They were mid-ranked, their Idols glimmering faintly in the night.
Ren calculated the risk. Lethal force was necessary. The sickles came out, slicing cleanly; a gunshot muffled, precise, knocked the nearest down. Fang and Grave were extensions of his will, moving silently to neutralize threats. Bodies fell without screams reaching the distant docks, only the faint sound of labored breathing muffled by the dense haze.
In minutes, the path cleared. Ren adjusted his jacket, eyes scanning for more, but the docks were empty save for the distant wail of the siren and the faint shuffle of workers who had not yet noticed.
---
He leaned against a crate, breathing controlled but faster than usual. Blood, adrenaline, the faint copper smell—it all mingled with the salt and mist of the docks.
Fang and Grave returned to his sides, silent, unspoken approval in their movements. No words were necessary. The Cloaks demanded results, and results had been delivered.
For a brief moment, Ren allowed himself a flicker of satisfaction, quickly suppressed. He thought of the day: school, friends, observation. And the night: death, violence, precision. Both halves of the same coin, yet one was fantasy, the other reality.
The duality did not weigh on him. It sharpened him.
---
A faint glimmer of light reflected off the water, distant but unmistakable. Someone was watching. Not a hero,not even a low-ranked hero. Someone untrained, impatient, stupid. It was a kid.
Ren's eyes narrowed beneath his mask. The night was never clean. Shadows had layers, and someone had stepped into the wrong one.
"Fucking hell," he muttered. Not a complaint, just acknowledgment.
He crouched. Fang and Grave flanked the kid silently—his night had just ended.