Darkness. That's all my childhood ever offers me when I reach back into it—an endless, suffocating black. I tell myself it's just my mind shielding me, burying the memories too foul to face. But the truth? I have no way of knowing. Even my parents are lost to me, faces blurred, voices scattered into nothing but echoes. The only proof they existed at all is a brittle scrap of paper, the edges frayed from too many desperate readings.
I've traced those words thousands of times, as though repetition might carve them deeper into me, might make them real: "Good luck. We love you. Mum and Dad." Nothing more. No names, no explanations, just a single phrase weighted with a lifetime of questions.
When I close my eyes, I can almost hear their voices in the dark, calling through the years, but the sound unravels as quickly as it comes, leaving me with nothing but silence.
And then, always, the city returns. I remember pressing my forehead to the cold glass of the orphanage window, gazing down at the sprawling labyrinth below. Towers thrust themselves upward like teeth from the earth, their sides blinking with jagged grids of light. The streets bled neon rivers, each one choked with noise and life. In the distance, the tallest spires glittered as if the night itself had torn open to reveal another world, a mirage shimmering with impossible light.
That was my childhood. Not warmth, not memory. Just darkness, questions, and a city that seemed alive in ways I never was.
I leaned over the ledge, the city yawning beneath me, a canyon of shadow and neon. My eyes locked on the target: a small man, flanked on either side by two towering brutes in dark coats. They moved with practiced precision, shepherding him down the sidewalk toward a waiting black van that gleamed like an iron coffin under the streetlights.
From my vantage, the rooftops seemed to hold their breath with me. I adjusted the scope, the cool steel pressing against my cheek, and slid a dart into place. A mechanical whisper, the promise of violence, settled into my palm. My chest tightened. Not from fear, but from the gnawing weight of memory, that cruel suspicion that maybe this was the only thing I had ever been good at.
I exhaled, slow and steady, letting the city's noise fall away until all that remained was the rhythm of my heart and the man below. He stepped out from the shadow of the van, head turning, eyes catching the light for a fraction of a second. In that instant, I saw not a target but a man who believed himself untouchable.
The dart flew with a hiss, invisible, merciless. It buried itself in the side of his neck before he could flinch. His knees buckled, the guards closing in, confusion etched across their broad faces. They scanned the rooftops, blind to the truth.
I stayed low, eyes tracking the chaos below, pulse steadying in the silence that followed. Then, the earpiece crackled.
"Clean shot," Marco's voice cut in, precise, calm. "That's why I trust you with the hard ones."
A corner of my mouth twitched, the closest I came to a smile in moments like this. Marco always knew how to cut through the noise, not just with orders, but with the kind of certainty that anchored me.
"Now exfil, Vale," he continued, tone sharpening. "I've got eyes on your path. You move, I'll get you home."
I breathed out slow, letting his words settle like steel in my spine. Out here, in the shadows, there were only two people I trusted to watch my back myself, and Marco.
"I don't have to tell you not to scream into the earpiece," I muttered, voice low and tight.
"Relax, Vale," Marco replied, warmth flickering beneath his words. "Who else do you know that can land a dart at three hundred yards? You've earned the right to be cocky once in a while."
I shook my head, adjusting my position against the rooftop's edge. He always did that, cutting the tension with quiet confidence, turning chaos into something that felt almost manageable.
The truth was, he wasn't wrong. For reasons I'd never been able to explain, I could see farther, sharper than most men. Where others squinted into the dark, I picked out street signs, facial lines, even the glint of a wristwatch from miles away. My eyes worked like the lens of a camera, zooming and focusing with unnatural ease.
It was a gift, or maybe a curse. One of the many reasons I'd survived this long, despite having no memory of my first sixteen years. That blank space gnawed at me more than any enemy ever had.
"Vale," Marco's voice softened, barely more than a murmur now, "time to move. I'll guide you through."
I pushed the thought of my missing years back into the dark where it belonged. The job wasn't finished, and Marco was counting on me.
The moment my boots hit pavement, the night came alive with a shrill mechanical hum. Drones. Sleek black frames swooped between the buildings, red sensors combing the dark like hungry eyes.
"Heads up, Vale, three drones sweeping from the south," Marco's voice snapped into my ear, sharp and clear. "You've got seconds. Rooftop, now."
I didn't think, I moved. My hands found the cold lip of a service pipe and I vaulted upward, muscles straining as I hauled myself up the side of the building. Fingers scraped steel, boots found purchase in cracks, and I climbed as if the walls themselves had always been a part of me.
A drone's beam cut across the alley where I'd stood just seconds earlier. Too slow. Too blind.
"Good," Marco murmured, tracking me from whatever nest of screens and feeds he commanded. "Two more incoming, higher altitude. Veer left, take the fire escape."
I spotted the rusted iron ladder exactly where he said it would be. My foot hit the railing, body twisting midair, and I caught the bars with both hands, swinging myself upward. The metal groaned under my weight, but I was already three flights higher before the sound died out.
"Nice move," Marco said, the faintest thread of pride in his voice. "But don't celebrate yet. drone above you, five meters."
I pressed flat against the wall, breath steady, feeling the vibration of its rotors through the brick. The red beam cut inches from my face before it passed, oblivious.
"Clear," Marco confirmed. "Now take it vertical. Two more buildings, and you're golden."
I moved. Faster, smoother. Every leap, every grip, every swing aligned perfectly with Marco's words. His voice painted the path in front of me, and my body answered without hesitation. When he said jump, I was already in the air. When he said climb, my hands had already found the ledge.
By the time I pulled myself onto the final rooftop, lungs burning and sweat cutting lines down my face, the city stretched wide and glittering beneath me. The chaos below had narrowed into silence, the kind only victory carries.
"Van's waiting on the north side," Marco said. His tone was steady, almost casual, but I could hear the edge of relief under it. "Hell of a run, Vale. I knew you wouldn't miss."
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding, eyes scanning the skyline one last time. Out here, in the endless dark, I trusted only two things, my own hands, and Marco's voice in my ear.
And together, that was enough to survive anything.