The handkerchief in the alley smelled of ozone and old blood. A receipt for someone's fear, and I was the unwilling courier. My own breath hitched, a sharp, painful sound in the cramped space between the clinic's back door and the overflowing dumpster. Moonlight, thin and desperate, bled down from the Glass City's towering spires, glinting off the thing clutched in my gloved hand. It was monogrammed with a stylized 'M', and it was the only thing left of the man who'd been screaming minutes ago.
Stupid. Reckless. This was how you got caught.
Every instinct screamed at me to drop it, to run back inside, to forget the metallic tang of terror hanging in the air. But the faint, wet gasp from the shadows behind the dumpster froze me solid. It wasn't the same voice from before. This was weaker. A death rattle.
Damn it.
My healer's instinct, that cursed, bone-deep pull to mend what was broken, overrode the survival part of my brain screaming about the Purification Units and their scanners. I crept forward, my worn sneakers silent on the wet pavement. The city's perpetual hum, the distant wail of a siren, it all faded into a dull roar in my ears.
He was a shadow coalesced into a man, crumpled against the grimy brick wall. Black tactical gear, torn and slick with something darker than the night itself. A mask, sleek and featureless except for narrow slits for eyes, covered his face. One hand was clamped over a grievous wound low on his abdomen, blood welling between his fingers in a steady, ominous pulse.
Vigilante. It had to be him. The one they called the Shade, the ghost story gangs told to scare new recruits. The papers called him a terrorist.
Another wet, shallow breath. He was dying.
I dropped to my knees, my med kit already unzipped. "Hey. Hey, can you hear me? I'm a… I can help." The lie tasted like ash. I wasn't just a med student. Not here, not now.
His head lolled toward me. Even through the mask, I felt the intensity of his gaze. It wasn't pleading. It was… assessing. Calculating the threat. A low growl rumbled in his chest. "Don't… touch me."
"You're bleeding out. Your choice is me or the city morgue," I snapped, my voice tighter than I meant it to be. My fingers, moving with a practiced efficiency I'd learned in a dozen alleys just like this one, probed the wound. He jerked, a stifled curse hissing through his teeth. The damage was bad. Worse than bad. Something wasn't just torn; it was… corrupted. The edges of the wound seemed to writhe with a faint, unnatural darkness. Shadow-rot. A myth. A story healers whispered about when we thought no one was listening.
My moonlight gift stirred in response to the darkness, a cool, silvery tide rising under my skin. It yearned to push back against the decay. A dangerous, terrifying urge.
"I said… leave." His hand shot out, gripping my wrist. His strength was shocking, iron-hard even through the agony. His touch was ice-cold, a deep, penetrating chill that felt utterly wrong. "They'll… scan you…"
He was right. The P.U. vans would be here soon, drawn by the earlier disturbance. Their scanners would light up the second I channeled power. They'd bag us both. Me for illegal mystical practice, him for… whatever he was.
But the blood. So much blood. It pooled on the asphalt, reflecting the fractured moon above. It looked like my brother's did the night he vanished.
No. Not again. I wouldn't let someone else die in the shadows while I did nothing.
"This is going to hurt," I whispered, more to myself than to him.
I closed my eyes, shutting out the fear, the stench of garbage and blood, the cold dread of his touch. I reached for the moon. It was always there, a silent song just beyond the city's glare. I pulled a thread of its power down, through the layers of smog and artificial light. It filled me, a brilliant, painful ache of pure silver light.
The man—the Shade—stiffened. "What are you—?" His question ended in a choked gasp as my hands, now glowing with a soft, luminescent radiance, pressed against his wound.
The reaction was instantaneous and violent. Light met shadow with a sound like sizzling oil. His back arched off the ground, a raw, guttural scream tearing from his throat. The dark energy in the wound fought back, a living, vicious thing that clawed at my light, trying to snuff it out. It felt like pouring ice water onto a raging fire, only to have the steam burn you instead.
Sweat beaded on my brow. I pushed harder, channeling more power, pouring my own energy into the fight. My vision swam. Memories flickered at the edges of my consciousness—Noah's laugh, the empty space at our dinner table, the cryptic note left on his pillow: Gone to find the real light.
The vigilante's struggles weakened. The corrosive darkness began to recede, inch by agonizing inch, under the relentless flow of moonlight. The physical tissue knitted itself back together, muscle and skin weaving into wholeness. The process was brutal, anything but gentle. I wasn't just healing him; I was scouring him clean.
Finally, it was done.
The light faded from my hands. I slumped back against the dumpster, utterly drained, my head spinning. The world came back in a rush—the smell, the cold, the sound of my own ragged breathing.
He lay still, chest rising and falling in deep, even breaths. The wound was gone. Only smooth, scarred skin and dried blood remained.
Slowly, he pushed himself up onto his elbows. His movements were fluid, powerful, no longer hampered by mortal injury. He turned his head toward me. The blank mask was terrifying. I couldn't read him. Couldn't see if he was grateful or furious.
He reached up, and with a faint hiss, the mask retracted, folding back into the collar of his suit.
My breath caught.
He was younger than I expected. Maybe late twenties. Sharp, angular features, pale skin stark against the black of his gear. His hair was dark, nearly black. But his eyes… they were the color of a stormy sky, a turbulent, striking grey. And they were fixed on me with an intensity that felt like a physical weight.
"You." His voice was low, rough from the scream, but devoid of the cold menace from before. It was layered with something else. Shock. Awe. And a deep, unsettling confusion.
He stared at his abdomen, at the place where a fatal wound should have been. Then his gaze snapped back to me, piercing. "What are you?"
Before I could form a lie, a thought, a anything, the sharp, electronic warble of a Purification Unit scanner cut through the alley. Red and blue lights flashed at the alley's entrance, painting the walls in garish strokes.
Panic, cold and absolute, lanced through me. No.
His reaction was instantaneous. In a movement too fast to follow, he was on his feet, pulling me up with him. His grip on my arm was firm, but not painful. "Can you run?"
I just nodded, my heart hammering against my ribs.
He didn't let go. With a strength that defied logic, he half-dragged, half-carried me deeper into the alley, away from the lights. We plunged into a narrow service tunnel I never knew existed, the sound of shouting and booted feet echoing behind us. The darkness swallowed us whole.
We ran for what felt like an eternity, through a labyrinth of dripping pipes and rusted metal, the vigilante's path unerring. Finally, he shoved open a heavy, reinforced door, and we stumbled into a cavernous space.
It wasn't another alley. It was a… garage? A hidden workshop? The air smelled of oil, metal, and ozone. Mismatched parts of advanced tech lay scattered across workbenches. A sleek, black motorcycle sat on a central platform like a resting predator. And on a large screen, lines of code and city surveillance feeds flickered silently.
This was his lair.
He released my arm and moved to the door, engaging a series of heavy-looking locks. The sound of each bolt sliding home was final. We were locked in. Together.
He turned to face me, leaning back against the sealed door. The grey eyes scanned the room, then landed back on me, taking in my trembling hands, my probably terrified expression.
"They'll have your scent now," he said, his voice flat. "Your energy signature. They know someone with a powerful gift was in that alley."
I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly freezing. "I had to. You were dying."
"I've been dying for a long time." The statement was devoid of self-pity. A simple, cold fact. "That's not the point. The point is, you lit up like a beacon. You're a liability. To yourself. And now… to me."
He pushed off from the door and took a step toward me. The casual power in his movement made me take an involuntary step back. My shoulders hit a cold metal shelf.
He stopped, his eyes narrowing slightly. "You're afraid of me." It wasn't a question.
"Shouldn't I be?" My voice was a whisper.
A ghost of a smile, utterly devoid of warmth, touched his lips. "Probably." He gestured vaguely at the space around us. "Welcome to the shadows, Healer. You just bought a one-way ticket."
Somewhere in the depths of the room, a console beeped, a soft, insistent sound. His head turned toward it. On the main screen, a face flickered into focus, pulled from a security feed. It was a young man with familiar eyes, his face gaunt, his head shaved. He was wearing plain grey robes.
Noah.
My brother. Alive.
The image was timestamped from six hours ago, in the industrial quadrant. The breath left my lungs in a rush.
The vigilante—Kael—looked from the screen to my face, reading my devastation with unnerving accuracy. His earlier sarcasm evaporated.
"Who is he?" he asked, his voice quieter now.
The word was torn from me. "My brother."
He was silent for a long moment, the only sound the hum of his machines and the frantic beating of my heart. The implications hung in the air between us, heavy and undeniable.
"Well," Kael said finally, the single word laced with a new, grim tension. "That complicates things."