The sky was black, as always. The rain also poured non-stop, as usual. It often rained on Nostramo, but without thunder and lightning, only furious streams of water.
On Nostramo, the rain was like this. It was not a natural phenomenon. It was wastewater that aristocrats dumped from the Upper Hive.
Among the multi-tiered spires, countless heaters patiently waited.
They had no consciousness, but their program was set. All their lives they waited for these rains, waited for them to turn into condensed steam. In the last moments of their lives, this rain in another form would slowly rise again.
It would pass through ancient machines, silently transported through rumbling pipes, and eventually become heating for the aristocrats, so they could, clad only in human skin, dance gracefully in their magnificent palaces without losing their decorum.
This was the best description of Nostramo's ecosystem: all benefits went to the aristocrats, and the people of the Underhive were left only to be burned by acid rain, choke on the stench, and eventually turn into rotting corpses in the sewers.
Karyel still sat on a huge gargoyle. He was in a cloak, and the acid rain could not harm him. Although the smell was still acrid, it was tolerable.
He looked down, and the sight of the chaos reigning there brought a cold smile to his pale face.
As he had expected, the Ghost made the mistake that every novice hunter makes: he focused on the enemies in front of him, forgetting about those who were still hiding in the shadows.
Carelessness is the number one enemy.
Hunters may come and go in the darkness, but that doesn't mean the darkness accepts them. In fact, the darkness can itself turn into a monster at any moment and devour their flesh.
Karyel stood up, and his cloak swayed slightly in the wind. He wasn't going to interfere, just watch coldly.
As he had said, this was a hunt that belonged only to the Ghost.
However...
He shook his head with a cold smile, and for a moment, an icy blue light flashed in his eyes.
...
Run.
The Ghost darted between the dark, damp walls. He used his hands and feet, climbing from one roof to another, jumping over tiles slippery from the rain.
Sometimes, anxious, frightened cries came from under his feet. But more often, he was met with bullets.
Sometimes he fell into a pile of garbage or a dirty puddle, and then, having gotten out, he continued to run.
He didn't stop for a second.
But it didn't help. The pursuers had been chasing him for half the night. And, judging by all appearances, they weren't going to stop.
They relentlessly pursued him on some fast two-wheeled machines. The Ghost didn't know their names, nor did he want to know. He had more important things to do.
In the curtain of rain, shooting did not cease.
Bullets whistled past, several times flying centimeters from his head.
Rough shouts came from the streets, mixing with the roar of engines. Passing through the veil of rain, they no longer sounded like human voices.
The Ghost didn't understand.
He didn't understand why they were so persistent, why they were so crazy, and how they managed to maintain such sharp vision while constantly under the influence of drugs.
But...
The Ghost thought Karyel was right.
He really should have been quieter.
He had killed that woman, but many more needed to be killed. Karyel said the entire gang needed to be wiped out. So he left that room and began to kill in this sinister three-story building.
Everything went smoothly, no one noticed him. He was like a breeze that swept through the corridor and carried away the warmth of life. But he forgot one thing.
He forgot to close the window.
The downpour poured in, the wind blew the window open, and it slammed against the wall with a crash. The floor gradually became soaked with acid rain, which, mixed with blood, seeped under the carpet, and then through the floor, dripping onto someone's head.
From that moment on, everything went wrong.
When alarms and screams pierced the night silence, the Ghost realized something had to happen. His premonitions were always accurate. He immediately decided to leave, but it was too late.
He had been noticed after all.
At first, it was just a few scattered pursuers. After a few minutes, there were more than thirty of them.
After half an hour, that number exceeded a hundred. And now, according to the Ghost's estimation, at least four gangs were chasing him.
They didn't even know what had happened, but they liked to use violence.
It was an acquired right, the opposite of oppression, the end of suffering.
They gladly joined in, rushing through the night after a stranger's flesh, shouting excitedly and killing all the innocents they encountered along the way.
For no reason.
It was like a carnival, but he was not a participant, but only a prize, so he started running.
Every person learns to walk, and then to run, and he was no exception. He had learned to run long ago, without any teachers.
It's just that in the past, his superhuman endurance didn't let him feel tired from running.
Now the Ghost felt it.
His breathing became heavy, his heart beat so fast that it was difficult for him to maintain balance while moving.
His hearing also began to weaken, leaving only a monotonous noise. The rain poured from the sky, soaking his clothes and leaving winding streaks on his pale skin.
Many of them even ran down the corners of his eyes and dripped from his chin. For an ordinary person, they would have caused burning pain, but for the Ghost, it was only warmth.
But he didn't want this. He didn't want them to warm him.
While running, the Ghost involuntarily let out a low growl.
It was born in his throat, but it was unfamiliar to him. In the first second, he even mistakenly thought that some monster was growling at him from the darkness.
The next second, he realized it was his own voice.
"And then came the pain."
It surged from his back, an infernal pain, so strong that he could barely resist, could not breathe, could not maintain clarity of thought.
He could no longer maintain his balance, his hands flailed in the rain, and he fell heavily onto the asphalt roof.
"I'm bleeding," the Ghost thought with agony.
He could not ignore this cruel fact: blood, in a sense, was equal to life. He valued it, but was powerless to keep it.
In a fog of consciousness, the Ghost suddenly heard their voices.
"Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye. Foolish child, we are leaving you, darkness will embrace you. Welcome it."
"No. Don't leave. I beg you."
The Ghost let out an inarticulate growl from his throat again.
This was not the first time he had been shot.
Long ago, when the Ghost still lived in the mine and fed on rats, the mine owner shot him with a cheap shotgun.
A few seconds after the bullet pierced his flesh, bringing pain, the Ghost, who couldn't even speak then, understood that he was being shot.
He didn't even need to think, this knowledge suddenly arose in his consciousness. And behind it – more cold words: the type of weapon, the caliber of the bullet, what to do after being wounded...
This time it was the same.
He lay on the cold roof, and several unfamiliar terms surfaced in his consciousness. One of them was extremely necessary for him now, but the Ghost paid no attention to them. He just wanted to get up and keep running.
This was his biggest mistake that night.
"I must leave."
"I must... leave the darkness."
His thoughts were in disarray, so when he felt a strong, as if ra
tearing flesh, tension, and pain, the Ghost suddenly awoke.
And realized one thing.
What had pierced his back was not a bullet.
"Gotcha!"
"No. No. I can't..."
The Ghost's eyes snapped open, and he let out a piercing roar. Pain clouded his vision with a bloody haze, and worse, something was pulling him down.
What was below?
He didn't know.
The ground? Or the trash bins in a dirty alley? Or perhaps a hundred armed bandits, eagerly awaiting him?
He had no time to think. He began to fall. The Ghost crashed heavily to the ground but quickly scrambled up, using his hands and feet to climb the wall again, desperately trying to escape.
"You're not getting away!" someone shouted maliciously. "Try this, you bastard!"
The next moment, a sharp engine roar sounded, and he was pulled down again.
The Ghost was ripped from the wall with a roar. With the corner of his eye, he noticed three of those two-wheeled machines that had been pursuing him. A black cable stretched from his back to the front of these machines.
It was from them that the pulling force originated.
"Kill him!"
In the dark alley, someone screamed furiously:
"Skin him, hang him up, and let him bleed out!"
"I want his head, I want his head!"
"Shoot him! Shoot his legs! Let's see if he can still run!"
"Or better yet, roast him, I want meat!"
"I need to get away."
"I must... get out of here, get away from the darkness."
In the chaos of thoughts, only these two spun in his head. The Ghost roared and flailed his arms, trying to push away these monsters. But in vain, his hands slipped through the air, his sharp nails digging into the wall, not touching any flesh.
"He's still moving!" someone shouted.
"Then give him hell!"
A sharp pain, and his consciousness plunged into darkness.
The Ghost watched with complete despair as it descended.
***
Read the story months before public release — early chapters are on my Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/Granulan