Morning light climbed Zenith's skyline in violent pinks and reds—as though the city itself bled. Alaric stood on the Rusted Oak's rooftop, breathing chilled air that tasted of burnt ozone and diesel fumes. His eyes tracked the empty street below. No cloaked watcher. No careless footfall. Yet danger-sense hummed in his bones like a struck chord.
He wasn't imagining it. Someone had chosen him as prey.
A soft creak behind him. Lia stepped onto the roof wrapped in his oversized jacket, silver hair whipping in the wind. She offered a thermos of instant coffee. "If you keep brooding alone, people might think you're lonely," she said, voice half-tease, half-concern.
"I'm thinking," he murmured, accepting the cup. Their fingers brushed; her cheeks flushed pink before she hid behind her mug.
"You're hunting again," she guessed.
"Hunted, more like." He relayed the lamppost encounter in clipped sentences. Lia's smile vanished, replaced by lethal focus. "Tell me who it is. I'll carve their heart out."
Alaric's chest tightened at the fervor in her tone. She'd always defended him with catlike ferocity, but lately the devotion felt sharper, almost possessive. He ruffled her hair. "I'll handle the carving. You've got orientation today."
"High school can wait."
"No." His voice brooked no debate. "You deserve normal doors to open, Lia. Let me kick down the ugly ones."
She bit her lip, then sighed. "Fine. But if they hurt you—"
"They won't."
Mid-morning, Alaric escorted her to Zenith High's east gate—an iron archway flanked by security drones and holographic banners. Students in crisp uniforms flooded past, gossiping about weekend concerts and scholarship tests. Lia, in a newly bought blazer and skirt, stuck close to Alaric's side like a wary kitten.
A bespectacled boy with messy hair collided with her, scattering textbooks. "S-sorry!" he yelped.
Lia knelt, collecting papers. "It's alright." She smiled—an expression Alaric rarely saw directed at strangers.
The boy introduced himself as Elio, a tech-club nerd who offered to guide her to the admin office. Lia glanced at Alaric for permission. He nodded, forcing a casual grin as Elio led her away. Only when she disappeared into the courtyard did Alaric turn, eyes darkening. Anyone who harmed her would regret it.
The fixer Kieran waited in a noodle stall near the Crossroads, slurping broth. His smirk widened when Alaric slid into the opposite seat. "Courier boy returns. Heard the Jacks are missing something expensive. Your doing?"
Alaric said nothing.
"Relax," Kieran chuckled. "I like efficient people. And efficient people deserve better jobs." He produced a data chip. "Client wants an item lifted from a mag-train tonight. Easy smash-and-grab if you board at the depot. Pays triple your last haul."
"Which depot?"
"The Eastern Rings freight yard. Syndicate-controlled." Kieran's smile turned razor-thin. "Interested?"
High reward, higher risk—and a perfect trap if his stalker belonged to the same client. Still, Alaric needed resources. "Send the details," he said, pocketing the chip.
"One favor: if you see a woman in a porcelain mask watching you, run. She's called the Shroud. People stalked by her rarely see sunrise."
So the hunter had a name.
Alaric spent the afternoon staking out rooftops near the Rusted Oak. He spotted her at dusk—tall, hood drawn, porcelain mask glinting under streetlamps, watching 6B's window. No gang colors, no obvious weapon. Pure predator.
He descended fire escapes, circling behind her path. She moved with supernatural grace, gliding between bystanders, never brushing a sleeve. He shadowed her for ten blocks, but the moment he blinked she melted into an alley and vanished. Only a single white chrysanthemum remained on the pavement, petals spotless despite gutter grime.
Not enough. He needed agility at D-rank to match her speed. That meant taking Kieran's mag-train job and praying the reward offered another stat point.
The Eastern Rings freight yard sprawled like a rusted skeleton beneath floodlights. Automated turrets scanned cargo lanes while Syndicate guards warmed themselves around burn barrels. Alaric crouched atop a shipping crane, heart steady, mission clear: infiltrate train car 517-Delta before departure, extract a secured lockbox.
He timed the patrol, slid down a cable, and sprinted across shadowed gaps, knife ready. A gust rattled tarp-covered crates; he slipped beneath them as two guards passed. Inside the car, stacks of metal trunks filled the darkness.
A hatch creaked behind him—another thief? The Shroud stepped inside, porcelain mask gleaming. She tilted her head, silently acknowledging him as if they were partners. Then she strode to a trunk on the far side and pressed a palm to the biometric lock. It hissed open.
Alaric's target trunk beeped behind him—code accepted remotely. His burner phone flashed a new message: Take it and run. Kieran had foreseen the Shroud's presence.
Sudden gunfire erupted outside. Guards shouted, alarms blared. The Shroud lifted her box, eyes on Alaric. Instead of attacking, she inclined her head—an invitation? She flicked a throwing blade, severing a coupling pin. Metal shrieked as the train jolted. Car 517 disengaged, rolling backward down a side track.
Alaric snatched his lockbox, sprinted to the rear door, and leapt onto coal bags just as the car slowed near a maintenance ramp. Bullets sparked overhead; Syndicate enforcers cursed from the main platform. The Shroud was gone—only another white chrysanthemum lay where she'd stood.
Back in 6B, Lia awaited him, worry etched on her face. "I felt something bad tonight," she whispered, hugging him fiercely. Her warmth banished the chill of the Shroud's gaze—yet on his jacket sleeve, a white petal clung like a silent promise.
He opened his status, allocated a newly-earned point to Vitality, feeling bone-deep vigor flood him. Outside, somewhere in the neon sprawl, the Shroud carried a lockbox identical to his—and he had no idea which of them held the real prize.
Tomorrow, he'd find out. Or die trying.