Part I: The Watcher Awakens
The city bled neon as night swallowed the skyline. Elias Veyne — no, Argus — moved through it unseen. The mask sealed tight, his lenses alive with pulsing red light, feeding him data from a dozen hidden eyes scattered across Meridian.
On one screen inside his visor, the docks replayed in fragments: unmarked vans, girls dragged in chains, Draegon's men laughing as they loaded them like cargo. Argus had followed those vans. Camera by camera. Feed by feed. A chain of unblinking eyes leading him across the city's dark veins.
From the docks, through the industrial quarter, past police checkpoints where no officer intervened. Until finally, the vans vanished into the gaping mouth of an abandoned warehouse on the western fringe of Meridian.
That was where the trail ended. That was where Argus began.
He crouched now on a rooftop across from the warehouse, the rain slicking his cloak, dripping off the ridges of his armor. Through his visor, heat signatures pulsed inside — six, maybe seven guards. Two pacing near the crates. One stationed at the door. The rest lounging near the cages shoved into the far corner.
And there — the faint outlines of the captives. Huddled together. Dozens.
Argus's breath slowed. He tapped the side of his gauntlet. Small drones detached from his belt, whirring quietly as they darted into the sky. Within moments, the warehouse filled his vision from every angle — grainy footage stitched together into a battlefield map. Every man's weapon. Every blind spot. Every exit.
He whispered into the storm.
"You're not unseen anymore."
The first guard never saw him. Argus dropped from the rooftop like a shadow given weight, his boots cracking against the man's skull. The body crumpled, silent, dragged into the dark before it touched the ground.
The second went down with a silent blade across his throat, his blood swallowed by the rain.
Inside, the others sat laughing, passing bottles, music thundering from cheap speakers. Their laughter turned to curses as the lights flickered, died, then flared back alive — every screen in the warehouse hijacked.
On them played footage of their crimes. From the docks. From the alleys. Every chain they dragged, every terrified scream, every vile smile.
"Who the hell—?!" one shouted, scrambling for his gun.
Then Argus was among them.
He moved like a phantom, cloak snapping, gauntlets cracking bone. A rifle split in half beneath his carbon blade. A jaw shattered under his elbow. Muzzle flashes lit him for heartbeats at a time — then he was gone, slipping between shadows, striking from nowhere.
One by one, the men fell. Groaning, bleeding, weapons broken, bodies strung up in chains beneath the flickering lights.
Argus turned at last to the cages. The girls shrank back, their eyes wide with terror. They had only known monsters in the dark. And here was another — red-eyed, faceless, silent.
Slowly, he sheathed his blade.
The locks broke beneath his gauntlet's pulse shock, one after another until the doors swung open.
"You're free," his voice rasped, filtered through the mask, metallic and inhuman. "Go. Find the police. Tell them everything."
For a heartbeat, none moved. Then the first girl stepped forward. Another followed. And then they fled, bare feet slapping against the concrete as they vanished into the night.
Argus stayed behind. He piled the unconscious men beneath the glowing monitors, their crimes looping endlessly on every screen. Chains bound them like butchered swine. Evidence lay in plain sight, undeniable, inescapable.
When the police came, there would be no questions. Only truth.
Argus stepped back into the rain. His lenses glowed faintly in the storm, scanning the city beyond. Tonight was only the beginning.
Draegon would feel this.
The city would feel this.
And the shadows would never be safe again.
The Watcher had awakened.