Prologue (Part III): The Making of the Watcher
Pain became Elias's closest companion.
It started with bruises and shallow cuts, but soon his body bore the map of his transformation — fractured ribs, split knuckles, a shoulder torn from its socket and reset in silence. Each scar was a lesson. Each drop of blood, a step toward becoming Argus.
He fought shadows until they became second nature.
Every night, he drilled with knives and batons, rehearsed disarming rifles, practiced grappling until he could choke the breath out of a man twice his size. His body hardened, movements sharper and faster, instincts honed until he no longer hesitated.
Discipline forged him.
When his muscles failed, he pushed further. When exhaustion blurred his vision, he struck blind, trusting sound and movement. He fought with fire in his lungs and ice in his veins until, finally, Elias Veyne could look in the mirror and no longer see a man who hesitated. He saw a predator.
The Argus Net grew alongside him.
From the shadows of alleys to the neon heart of downtown, his eyes multiplied. Cameras embedded in gutter pipes. Drones disguised as birds roosting near clubs. Bugs hidden in traffic lights and subway turnstiles. Piece by piece, Meridian became a city under surveillance — but not by its corrupt police or Draegon's watchmen.
It belonged to him.
Through the mask, Elias could watch the city breathe. He saw drug trades dissolve in a handshake, politicians whispering bribes behind closed doors, Draegon's men moving shipments at midnight. He tracked names, faces, routes. He knew who profited, who suffered, who disappeared.
But it was one feed that broke him.
A camera no larger than a fingernail, hidden near the eastern docks, captured a convoy. Unmarked vans pulling in under cover of night. Crates unloaded, heavy chains rattling, muffled cries spilling into the air. The men laughed as they dragged the captives out. Girls. Young. Some no older than Marin had been.
Elias watched in silence as rage boiled inside him. His fists clenched until his nails split skin. His sister's ghost flickered across the feed — every terrified face became hers, every chain the one he had failed to break.
He played the footage again and again. Burned every detail into memory. License plates. Tattoos. Slang. Routes. He charted their paths across the city until a map of Draegon's trafficking network formed in red lines. At the center was a warehouse — old, forgotten, hidden in plain sight.
That was the night Elias Veyne ceased to exist.
He sealed the mask over his face, lenses glowing like a constellation of burning eyes. He pulled the cloak across his shoulders, cinched his gauntlets, holstered his blades. The weight of the gear didn't drag him down — it carried him forward.
In the silence of his lair, standing before the photograph of Marin, he whispered to himself.
"This city took you. It won't take them. Not again."
Then he ascended into the night, a shadow given form, a watcher given wrath.
The city would meet Argus for the first time.