The bounty on Rayon's head worked faster than anyone expected.
By dawn, assassins moved through the slums like shadows with blades.
The first came when Rayon was alone, walking the alleys with his hands in his pockets, eyes dead as always. A dagger glinted in the dark, aimed at his throat.
The blade pierced clean—except it didn't.
The assassin blinked, confused as the knife passed through Rayon like smoke. Then pain exploded in his own throat as a string tightened around it. Rayon hadn't even looked at him.
The corpse hit the ground before the assassin realized he'd been played.
Rayon's hollow voice whispered into the silence:
"You thought you found me. But I found you first."
And that was only the beginning.
The next night, three assassins came together. They weren't gutter trash—they were trained killers, veterans with scars and steel in their eyes.
Rayon let them follow him. Let them think they were predators.
He lured them into a burned-out tavern, then sealed the doors with strings. The killers laughed.
"You trapped yourself, boy."
But Rayon only tilted his head, dark eyes gleaming.
"No." He smiled faintly. "I trapped you."
The floorboards erupted with threads, tangling ankles, bending perception. One assassin thought he was slashing Rayon—he was gutting his partner instead. The second saw three Rayons at once, spinning wildly in confusion. The third felt his own senses betray him—every step heavier, every breath stolen—until Rayon's fist crushed his jaw, snapping strings of bone.
When the fight ended, blood painted the tavern. Rayon walked out untouched.
The city learned: bounty hunters weren't hunting Rayon. They were feeding him.