That day, it was raining.
Not a normal rain.
A rain that soaked the skin as much as the heart.
The drops fell without force but without pause, smashing on gray stone, erasing faces, thinning tears into something a little more bearable. Around the grave, umbrellas formed black flowers. Everyone stood straight, impeccable, as if they knew that at a funeral you should at least look solid.
He wasn't.
From the start of the ceremony, Thomas hadn't said a word. Words, he knew, didn't bring anyone back. What could he say? That he resented her? That he wished she hadn't made him promise anything before she left? That he would never have spoken those words if he'd known they'd keep him from following her? No. He stood there, hands soaked at the bottom of his pockets, watching her disappear slowly into the ground.
A small hand had latched onto his coat.
Léa, the sister of the deceased.
The little girl shivered in the rain, fingers clenched white, red eyes fixed on the gaping hole in the earth. Her violet hair, soaked to the tips, clung to her pale cheeks as if refusing to let her breathe. Everything about her seemed washed out by the rain, except that color—the strange violet, identical to the elder's. The same eyes. The same shade. The same imprint. Every time Thomas looked at her, he saw the other one. And it killed him a little more.
She didn't speak either.
She didn't yet know that all her misfortune wouldn't be able to end because of her. Because of a last breath. Because of a final request: "Take care of her, Thomas. She has nothing left. You're all she has. Promise me."
Thomas still remembered the crow that had flown from a nearby branch, the smell of wet earth and rain, his hands trembling at the bottom of his pockets, and that last shovel of dirt that closed the chapter of that life for good.
Ten years had passed since that day. Ten years of rain. And yet, nothing had been washed clean.
Night was swallowing the city.
A derelict warehouse loomed, a monolith of steel and shattered glass. Inside, everything was silence and echoes. Blood, dust, iron. The smell of hot metal and fear.
Thomas Zerhn walked slowly among the bodies.
His black suit was speckled with dark stains, his long, rain-soaked coat clung to his shoulders, dripping under the water that fell through cracks in the roof. A three-day beard cast a hard shadow across his face. His eyes had no color left. Just that dull, bottomless black—the kind men wear when they've stopped living.
In his right hand, a katana burned with a black-and-white flame, calm, unending. The flames didn't flare—they breathed, rippling with each movement, devouring the light without ever going out.
Every raindrop that touched the blade evaporated at once, rising into the air like a silent prayer.
The metal thrummed softly, as if it were still beating in time with his heart.
Behind him, a voice pleaded.
"Please… I beg you, Mr. Zerhn… we did our best… I have a family… a wife at home…"
Thomas didn't move. The flames around the blade danced gently, as if alive. His gaze fell on the kneeling man. His breathing was slow, steady. Too steady for this situation.
A wife at home…
The words lanced through his memory. Another voice, another breath. "Take care of her, Thomas. She has nothing left. You're all she has. Promise me."
He tightened his grip. His fingers went white.
"Unfortunately… I can't understand you. No one's waiting for me."
The man understood. His gaze froze, pupils dilated. Then he lunged, a sharp move, short blade hidden in his sleeve. A breath, a flash, the cry of steel faster than fear.
The katana cleaved the air with a pure hiss.
A brief, unreal light burst between them, and the head parted from the body with an almost peaceful precision.
It rolled across the concrete, struck a puddle, drawing red circles before it stilled.
Thomas didn't move.
The katana still lowered, his head inclined.
Around him, the corpses formed an imperfect circle.
The rain traced veins on the ground, red lines losing themselves in the shadows. And in that viscous silence there was something heavier than death. An absence. An echo. The same silence he had carried in him for ten years.
Ten years I should've done better, he thought. Ten years clinging to a promise instead of a life. Ten years of regret, of rain, and of flames I no longer understand.
He sheathed the blade slowly.
The flames went out completely, swallowed by the night.
Out in the rain, he left the warehouse.
His coat flapped in the wind, heavy and soaked.
He pulled out a cigarette, tried to light it. The lighter trembled in his hand. The flame refused twice. Then, finally, a fragile glow lit his tired features.
He drew in deep, let the smoke slip out with a sigh.
"One day… I'll find you, Léa."
His words were swallowed by the rumble of thunder.
"I've got a promise to keep. After all."
Thomas breathed out slowly. The ash fell, lost itself in the puddle.
He didn't stop.
The rain intensified, running down his coat. With each step, the ground changed beneath his boots: from the warehouse mud to the city's slick asphalt. And little by little, the silence of the dead gave way to the hum of the living.
Lights first appeared in the puddles—shifting reflections, red, blue, violet—before climbing the streaming walls. Then the city opened to him, titanic, feral, metallic.
Black towers clawed the sky, pierced by giant screens parading golden faces, perfect slogans, hollow promises.
The streets throbbed with the growl of levitation engines.
Cars floated above the wet asphalt; higher up, ships streaked between skyscrapers like domesticated stars.
Around him, the crowd moved, hurried, indifferent.
Men, women, augmented beings: faces crossed by luminous lines, digital pupils, chrome implants. Some still carried umbrellas; others let the rain slide over synthetic skin. An ocean of rushing silhouettes, metallic breathing, perfumes blended with rust. And he alone walked out of step—his heavy coat beating in the wind, the katana hidden beneath the fabric.
An ad burst suddenly across a screen above the street, a crystalline female voice:
"Ten years of peace. Ten years of progress. Ten years under the benevolence of the Alkardus Empire."
On the screen, a half-human, half-angelic figure. Alabaster skin, a crown of steel, artificial golden eyes.
Around her, other crowned silhouettes raised their luminous scepters.
"Thanks to our gifts, humanity survived. Through biological fusion, we are united. With Alkardus implants, every citizen becomes more than human."
Images flashed by: soldiers in silver armor lined up in the rain. Crowds cheering giant holograms. Neo-punk elites drowning in luxury, glass in hand, implants glittering.
Then the voice returned, soft, hypnotic:
"Submit your body to perfection. Submit your mind to truth. The future belongs to those who accept the Order."
Words scrolled across a building's façade before the rain wiped them clean: ALKARDUS INDUSTRIES – Serving Humanity Since Year 10.
Thomas didn't look up. He kept walking. His steps slapped through filthy water on the sidewalks, wet strands of hair stuck to his brow.
The crowd brushed past him without seeing, the screens flickered in the night, and the artificial voice kept promising a better world to those who had already lost everything.
No one noticed the man in the long coat.
No one knew he passed among them with, beneath the cloth, a weapon that still breathed.
The rain kept falling. And above it, the voice repeated, ceaseless:
"The Alkardus Empire watches over you. Be grateful. Be perfect."
Thomas took one last drag, let the smoke burn his throat. He stared a moment at the glowing tip, then flicked the cigarette into a puddle.
A hiss, a small cloud of steam.
Without a word, he walked away. His boots struck the drenched pavement, rain streaming down his coat.
At the corner of the alley, a red sign blinked in the fog:
LILITH'S BAR.
The neon sputtered, every other letter half dead. Inside, the light was warm, saturated with amber reflections. Smoke hung thick, churned by the purr of an old ceiling fan. Patrons—augmented, battered, tattooed up to the eyes—drank in silence.
A slow, almost human music thrummed between metal walls.
Thomas stepped through the door.
The air smelled of alcohol, sweat, and copper.
Behind the counter, she barely looked up. Hair the color of yellow gold, matching golden irises. Beneath her skin, the finely etched network of her implants showed—chrome lines running along her collarbones, pulsing to the rhythm of a heart that had likely been rewired more than once. Her body was anything but discreet: a short, almost indecent outfit, metallic glints at chest and hips, a light-collar beating in time with the music.
"Still underdressed," Thomas muttered, taking a seat.
A half-insolent smile slid across her lips.
"And you, still charming as ever."
She paused, took him in.
"but… I'm glad you're alive. Whiskey? The usual?"
He nodded.
She poured the glass. The amber liquid clicked against the ice.
Thomas took a sip, leaned on the counter.
"The lead turned up nothing," he said, voice rough.
"The team?"
"Probably in on it."
He crushed a bitter laugh.
"I ended up silencing them all."
Lilith sighed.
"Another bloodbath, then. You know, there are other ways to settle debts."
He pulled out a cigarette, lit it. The lighter's flame reflected in his black eyes.
"Debts, maybe. Not promises."
"Always the promises, huh?"
She leaned against the bar, arms crossed beneath her chest, almost tender.
"You're going to end up killing yourself for someone who isn't coming back."
Thomas gave a tired smile.
"Maybe that already happened."
Lilith was about to answer—some jab, surely, soft or cruel—when her gaze slid up to the screens above the counter.
Her face froze.
The glasses on the shelves trembled lightly, resonating under a crisp synthetic tone.
"Breaking News — Emergency Broadcast from the Imperial Channel."
The music cut. Conversations died. Every eye turned to the giant screen.
A mechanical, solemn voice filled the bar:
"Attention, citizens of the Alkardus Empire. An Alpha-class terrorist has been identified in the New-France sector. Wanted for theft of imperial technology and treason against the Order."
The image appeared. A feminine silhouette. Violet hair. Violet eyes. Katana at her hip.
"LEA ASKION — MOST WANTED. ENEMY OF THE EMPIRE. ENEMY OF HUMANITY."
The voice continued, relentless:
"The suspect is believed to have escaped the central system, fleeing aboard a hijacked military transport. According to our sources, she left Earth's orbit less than twenty-four hours ago, headed toward an unlisted outer planet. The Alkardus Empire offers an exceptional reward for any information leading to her capture."
Silence fell again.
Only the rain against the window could be heard.
Lilith whispered, stunned:
"Holy shit… it's really her."
Thomas didn't move. His fingers tightened around the glass, then he drained it in one go. He crushed his cigarette in the ashtray and rose slowly.
Lilith straightened, voice trembling.
"Thomas, wait! You're not—"
He slipped on his coat. His black eyes met hers.
"I have a promise to keep."
He left the bar.
The door closed behind him with a metallic squeal.
Outside, the rain kept falling, tireless. And somewhere, in the glow of the screens, a name kept looping:
"LEA ASKION — WANTED."