Part III: Blood in the Alley
Rain clung to Meridian City like a second skin, turning streets into slick ribbons of asphalt that reflected the neon of failing signs and streetlights. The air smelled of wet concrete, burning rubber, and the low thrum of desperation. Here, the city's pulse was raw, unfiltered — the veins of crime running through alleys and abandoned warehouses.
Argus moved through it as if he were carved from the darkness itself. Cloak heavy with rain, boots silent on cracked concrete, the lenses of his mask flickering red as they scanned the area. Every shadow, every movement, every heartbeat was data. Every breath he took became a calculation: who, what, when, where.
Tonight, it was The Veil. A low-level street gang with a reputation for brutality, notorious for pushing Nightshade — a drug far more potent and addictive than crack. Users wandered the streets hollowed, drooling, violent. Their profits flowed upward, protected by men who lived in safe houses and factories the police could never find. Argus had traced their operations to a single derelict building in the East End: a crumbling brick structure with graffiti on its walls, boarded windows, and a single flickering security light.
He perched on a fire escape opposite the building, eyes scanning. Four men stood near the entrance, leaning against walls, smoking, laughing. Each had a weapon — two handguns tucked into jackets, knives strapped to thighs. Heat signatures glowed faintly through the mask: patterns of tension, of readiness, of hubris.
Argus inhaled through the mask's filtration system, feeling the rain beat against the hood. One thought: precision. He had trained for months. He had prepared. Tonight would be surgical.
He dropped silently from the fire escape. The first man never saw him coming. Boots struck skull; the thug crumpled to the ground, out cold before he could shout. Another lunged, knife flashing — Argus caught the blade with one gauntlet, twisted, and threw the man into a dumpster. The next two moved simultaneously, guns drawn, but Argus was already a blur, a shadow between shadows. Carbon-edged blades met bone, gauntlets struck nerves and ligaments. By the time the men realized they were under attack, three were groaning in the wet alley, one crawling backward in terror.
Argus knelt over the last one, rain dripping into his lenses, reflecting off the red array of optical sensors. He didn't speak at first. He let silence do the work. The thug's chest heaved, panic flooding every movement.
"You're going to talk," Argus said, voice low, metallic, distorted. "Or I'm going to make sure every bone in your body remembers why you should have."
The thug's eyes widened, sweat and rain mixing on his face. "I—I don't know! I swear, man! Please! Don't—"
Argus didn't wait. He struck, hammering the thug with rapid punches to the ribs, each blow calculated to knock breath and will out of him. The thug doubled over, gasping. A kick to the shoulder sent him crashing against the brick wall, the impact snapping a collarbone with a wet, sickening crack.
"Where is he?" Argus demanded, leaning close. "Where is your boss distributing Nightshade?"
The man whimpered. "I-I don't know! I swear! He… he runs the pills from the old textile factory on Pier 19! Please… please don't—"
Argus pressed his gauntlet against the man's side, a pulse shock sending violent spasms through muscles, eliciting a scream. The man sagged to the ground, gasping for air, clutching his ribs. Argus followed with a crushing kick to the knees, then a rapid elbow strike to the jaw, snapping teeth and ligaments.
Pain became his instrument. Fear became his language. And slowly, the thug began to speak.
"Factory… Pier 19… storage near the docks… guard rotations… nightshift starts at 11… I swear, man!"
Argus cataloged it all in the memory banks of his mask, his lenses glowing as the details scrolled across augmented reality overlays. Every route, every guard pattern, every weak point.
"You will remember this," Argus said, voice low and grinding. "If you lie, if you withhold, the next time I find you, it will not be this… gentle."
The man crumpled fully, too broken to resist further. Argus stood, checking his gauntlets, the carbon blades humming faintly. The city's storm masked the wet thuds of bodies behind him, the moans of defeated thugs echoing off the alley walls.
Rain streamed down the face of his mask as he surveyed the scene. Three bodies lay unconscious, one barely conscious but alive. The thug he had broken would live, but he would carry every reminder of the night Argus had come for him. The streets would remember, too.
Argus allowed himself a single thought, fleeting, almost forbidden: a small victory.
One gang neutralized. One step closer to the people who needed saving.
But there was no time for celebration. He scanned the alley again, confirming his escape route. Each shadow was a potential threat. Drones zipped silently overhead, capturing every corner, every blind spot. He had learned quickly — speed was not enough. He needed awareness. He needed control. And in that alley, he had both.
Argus stepped into the darkness, moving with the practiced fluidity of a predator. Every step, every motion, every adjustment of his cloak or gauntlet was deliberate. Rain soaked into his armor, mixing with the grime of the city, but he felt nothing but focus.
Later, in the quiet of his lair beneath the abandoned subway station, Argus cataloged the night's events. Screens blinked with live and recorded feeds. The thug's confession scrolled across the overlay. Heat signatures of the gang's bodies faded into sleep or unconsciousness. He mapped the factory on Pier 19, marking entry points, guard positions, and storage areas.
He worked methodically, like he always did, until the plan took shape. The Nightshade supply chain had a crack now — a way in. And Argus would be there to exploit it.
He paused at the photograph of Marin on his desk, the only anchor to the man he had been. The small victory of tonight echoed in his chest. He allowed himself to feel it for a heartbeat: satisfaction. Relief. Hope.
I did something right.
Then he remembered the scale of the work ahead. Draegon's network was vast, and this was only one node. One factory. One gang. One shipment.
But it was a start. And Argus never wasted a start.
As dawn began to creep into the edges of the city skyline, wet clouds casting a gray pall over Meridian, Argus ascended back into the streets. He had left the gang alive, broken but breathing — a warning. A message. The city needed to see that the shadows had teeth, and that they were watching.
The Nightshade network would not go unpunished.
And Argus was the hand that would dismantle it.