God Ash: Remnants of the fallen.

"Remember," Cain said, letting his gaze sweep across them all, "patience does not mean idleness. Every silence is a blade. Every quiet step is a strike waiting to happen. We are not prey hiding from a predator—we are the hand waiting for the pulse to slow before we close the throat."

The words landed heavy. None of them spoke.

And in that silence, Cain allowed himself one private thought, sharp and cold:

If they think they can outwait me, they're already dead.

The silence stretched, dense as smoke, wrapping the small chamber in weight. Cain's eyes lingered on each of them—Hunter steady as ever, Susan restless, Roselle sharp and assessing. He saw the truths written in their bodies more clearly than their faces: Hunter's patience, Susan's fire, Roselle's hunger. Tools, all of them. Sharp edges waiting for the right hand.

He was that hand.

At last, Cain turned toward the door. The torch hissed as he passed, his shadow growing long across the wall before snapping away as he stepped into the corridor. The others followed, their footsteps quiet, though Cain could still feel their energy pressing close—their trust, their doubts, their expectations.

The building breathed around them. The old stone carried sound too well, every shift of leather, every brush of cloth against skin echoing faintly. Somewhere above, a beam groaned, wood protesting against its own weight. Cain heard it all. He had trained himself to.

When they emerged into the wider hall, the air changed. Cooler, touched with the faint scents of the city bleeding in from the cracks—charcoal smoke, stale ale, rotting fruit from the market stalls abandoned for the night. Outside, the City of Monsters whispered to itself, never silent, never still.

Hunter's voice was low as they moved. "Do you want me to begin tonight?"

Cain didn't look at him. "No. Rest. The shadow that never sleeps draws suspicion. Tomorrow you begin, quietly, where no one expects you to be."

Hunter inclined his head, accepting the command without question.

Susan exhaled sharply, impatience still gnawing at her. "And me?"

Cain's gaze flicked to her, then away. "You will do what comes naturally—burn brightly enough to blind them. But not yet. Hold your flame until I say otherwise."

Her jaw tightened. Cain knew the restraint would cut at her, but that was the point. Control was a weapon, and those who learned to master their impulses became far more dangerous than those who simply unleashed them.

Roselle said nothing, but Cain felt her eyes on him, measuring him again. He welcomed it. Let her measure. Let her doubt. As long as she kept watching, she would see only what he allowed her to see.

They reached the outer door. Cain pushed it open, and the night spilled in—moonlight washing across cobblestones slick with recent rain, alleys yawning like open throats between crooked buildings. The city's heartbeat was everywhere: the shuffle of unseen steps, the whisper of distant laughter, the metallic scrape of a blade drawn in some alley far from here.

Cain stepped out first. The cold air struck his face, sharp and grounding. He breathed it in, eyes sweeping the street. Nothing unusual, nothing immediate. And yet, he felt it—that presence Hunter had spoken of. A watcher. Someone moving between shadows just beyond sight.

Good. Let them watch.

He led the others down the street, the stones uneven beneath their boots, the city looming above like a predator crouched to strike. Windows glimmered faintly with candlelight here and there, but most were dark, shuttered against the night. Even in its sleep, the City of Monsters remained dangerous, every silence hiding teeth.

Cain welcomed it. The city was not enemy or ally—it was the arena. And he had always thrived in arenas.

As they turned into a narrower street, Susan finally broke the silence. "What if we're already too late?"

Cain's steps didn't falter. "Then we steal back time. Piece by piece. Move by move. The one who believes themselves ahead often reveals the path they've taken. That is how we catch them."

Hunter gave a faint sound, not quite agreement, not quite doubt. Cain glanced at him but said nothing.

Roselle, walking a half-step behind, finally spoke, her voice low. "You sound as if you've played this game before."

Cain allowed himself the ghost of a smile. "I have. And I'm still here."

That ended the conversation.

They moved deeper into the city, swallowed by its veins, until the night closed fully around them. Somewhere out there, the phantom stirred, aligning their pieces, whispering to their allies. But Cain knew one truth that no phantom could escape:

Every predator believes itself hidden. Until the moment the trap closes.

The silence stretched, filling with the phantom's presence. Cain almost admired it—whoever trailed them had discipline. No shuffle of nerves, no wasted sound. Just patience. But patience alone could not outlast him.

He stopped at the end of the alley, pausing beneath the drooping eave of a sagging building. His reflection stared back at him from the puddle at his feet, broken by ripples from the constant drip. Without turning, he spoke.

"You've followed us long enough." His voice was calm, almost casual, but it carried through the corridor like a blade drawn from its sheath.

The others froze. Susan's hand went to her weapon, Roselle's eyes darted to the darkness, but Hunter only tilted his head, watching, waiting.

From the shadow at the far end of the alley, a figure emerged. Hooded. Thin. Movements controlled, deliberate. Not some reckless spy—this one knew the craft. The torchlight from the street didn't catch his face, only the faint glint of eyes.

"You noticed." The voice was quiet, neither mocking nor afraid. A statement, as if the revelation had been expected.

Cain didn't blink. "You wanted me to."

The hood shifted, a small nod. "Observation. Nothing more."

Susan stepped forward, sharp. "Observation leads to action."

Cain raised a hand, silencing her. His eyes stayed locked on the phantom's. "So. Whose hand are you?"

The figure didn't answer. Instead, a slow step backward, melting toward the dark again.

Hunter's voice was low. "Testing us."

Cain's jaw tightened. "No. Measuring us."

And as the phantom slipped into shadow once more, Cain felt it—the tightening of invisible lines across the city, the web pulling taut.

The game had officially begun.