Rouvenne was a city of shadows and smoke, a place where humanity and demonkind intertwined like twisted vines. Here, in the twisting alleys and gaslit boulevards, no one could tell who was human and who wore the mask of demon flesh beneath a flawless smile. The city breathed on a knife's edge—fragile, dangerous, and always watching.
At its heart stood Silver Glance, a clandestine agency tasked with peeling back the city's veils. They operated in silence and in shadows, hunting threats that neither government nor law dared touch. Demons who hid in plain sight, secret cults, and corrupted souls—Silver Glance was Rouvenne's unseen sword, the thin line between order and chaos.
The city itself was a patchwork of steam and magic. Trams hissed on iron rails beside horses that leapt and drifted through the sky, their wings stirring whispers of forgotten spells. People hurried past, faces unreadable, some human, some not — and some neither. No one dared guess who wore which mask.
A tram clanged to a halt near the edge of town, doors sliding open with a sigh. One figure stepped off into the chill night — a lone shadow wrapped in a long coat, a fedora tipped low. Two polished horns broke through the hat's brim, curling skyward like a silent announcement.
Asher.
He paused, taking in the city's jagged silhouette, the glowing spires of Silver Glance headquarters rising ahead — a black castle crowned with gargoyles, its windows gleaming like watchful eyes.
Inside, the agency was alive with whispers and smoke.
Asher ascended the grand staircase to a cracked door where a gruff voice awaited.
"You the horned brat?" came the greeting — rough, tired, laced with nicotine.
Inside, Clark Renshaw sat amid ashtrays and scattered files, his voice steady as a grave.
"Horns. Hat. French sarcasm. You're the kid. You look like a demonic sommelier."
Asher blinked. "You're very... eloquent."
"Don't sweet-talk me, rouge-boy. I'm hungover, probably dying, and three meetings behind. Sit."
Asher sat.
Clark coughed, flicked ash into a porcelain skull, then tossed a folder across the desk filled with photos of the city's darker side — demons, victims, places where shadows festered.
"You think this job's gonna be noir theatrics and witty one-liners?" Clark asked, eyes burning behind smoke. "It's not. It's blood. It's politics. It's getting puked on by a sentient blob pretending to be a noblewoman."
"I've handled worse," Asher replied, flipping the file.
Clark lit another cigarette with the stub of the last. "Good. Then you'll fit in just fine with this parade of charming bastards."
He wheeled in a blackboard and scrawled three words:
OBSERVE. REPORT. ERADICATE.
"Silver Glance is Rouvenne's last line of defense," Clark explained, "a covert agency hunting the filth slipping between worlds. Demons, cults, spirits with unfinished business, all the things that want this city to burn. We don't negotiate. We don't explain. We make the shadows bleed and keep the gears turning."
Asher nodded. He had come for this — a chance to wield his heritage, to stop the rot from swallowing the city whole.
Clark fixed him with a tired gaze. "And you? Why come knocking with your horns polished?"
Asher flipped the silver badge over in his palm, its winged eye catching the light. "As many times as the city bleeds, I want to be the wound it fears to reopen."
Clark grunted approval. "And if you don't?"
Asher smiled faintly. "Then I'll bleed with it."
Clark tossed the badge onto the desk. "You're Glance now. Wear that carefully."
He took a long drag, exhaled smoke shaped vaguely like a bat.
"Alright, degenerates. Tomorrow, briefing at eight. Wear something you're okay bleeding in."
The door clicked open and a few faces peeked in, watching the new recruit with interest.
Clark sat back, eyes narrowing on Asher.
"What you smiling at, horn-boy?"
Asher tapped his badge. "I've always wanted to work somewhere that handed out death instructions and fashion accessories."
Clark laughed, a harsh smoker's laugh.
"You're gonna get stabbed in the spleen and make a pun about it, aren't you?"
"Depends on who's watching."
Clark smirked, crushed his cigarette, stood, and waved.
"Don't be late tomorrow. Briefing's at eight sharp. I'm only mildly homicidal before coffee."
Asher tipped his fedora.
Clark waved back.
They didn't smile this time.
But they didn't have to.