God Ash: Remnants of the fallen.

Cain leaned against the broken wall of an abandoned workshop. His blade was clean again, though the air still smelled of iron and smoke. He kept his eyes on the street beyond, where shadows pooled between leaning buildings. The city's rhythm hadn't slowed—it never did. But beneath that rhythm, Cain heard something off-beat.

Hunter crouched a few meters away, bow across his knees. He didn't ask questions. He never did when Cain's focus was fixed on something unseen. He simply waited, listening, adjusting.

Susan leaned back against the far side of the room, hood shadowing her face. Her hand rested on her weapon, but she hadn't drawn it. She watched Cain instead of the street. She knew the signs—when his silence stretched long, it meant more than patience. It meant calculation.

Steve's voice broke in through the comm. "Movement on the western grid. Signals faint, but I'm seeing distortions. Same signature as the phantom's scouts."

Cain didn't flinch. "Direction?"

"North. Drifting close to the market quarter."

Cain exhaled. His eyes narrowed at the empty street. "They're testing boundaries again. Trying to feel out where the traps are."

Hunter adjusted his bowstring with a quiet snap. "Then they already know something's here."

"They suspect," Cain said. His voice was level, quiet. "But suspicion without proof is nothing. They'll push further. That's when we take them."

The room fell silent again. Outside, the market sounds grew louder—vendors dragging carts, children chasing each other through the streets, livestock bleating as stalls opened. Life moved on in ignorance, untouched by the war happening in their veins. Cain had always preferred it that way.

Susan finally spoke, voice calm but sharp. "How many?"

"Two, maybe three signals," Steve replied. "Not clustered. Testing separately. One's already circling near your sector."

Cain lifted his blade, weighing its balance in his hand. "We divide. Hunter, west rooftop line. Susan, stay near the quarter entrance. Steve, tighten the false grid. Pull them in, but not too fast. Let them think they're choosing their own path."

Hunter gave a single nod and slipped through the window, vanishing into the morning haze. Susan adjusted her cloak and stepped out the opposite door, moving without sound. Cain followed last, every step measured, every turn accounted for.

The streets were busy now. Merchants haggled over fruit, coin clinked between hands, barrels rolled over cobblestones. Cain walked through it all without a glance. His presence didn't register. He had spent years refining it—never more, never less, always invisible when he needed to be.

Then he felt it. A weight in the air. Not seen, not heard, but felt. The rhythm faltered. His eyes flicked left—an alley between two leaning buildings. The light didn't sit right there. Too thick. Too still.

He shifted his grip on the blade. "Susan," he murmured through the link. "Adjust. Your sector's already compromised."

She didn't argue. Her voice came back steady. "Understood."

Hunter's voice followed. "Rooftop line clear. No sight yet."

Cain didn't answer. He stepped into the alley, one hand brushing the wall, measuring its cracks, its angles. He didn't rush. Predators only rushed when they were desperate. He wasn't.

The distortion sharpened. A shape began to form in the shadow. Limbs too long, angles too sharp, movement that mimicked human but carried none of its weight. Cain's eyes fixed on it calmly.

"You've been here before," he murmured. "Same hesitation. Same tilt of the head." He didn't raise his blade yet. He wanted to watch. Catalog. Confirm.

The creature shifted, head turning as if listening. The crowd outside didn't notice. They never did. Cain's jaw tightened slightly. This was why he worked the way he did. If they noticed, it was already too late.

Susan's voice came low, clipped. "Two more shadows approaching. Market entrance. Smaller, lighter."

Hunter added, "Third figure moving on the roofline east. Trying to flank."

Cain's blade lifted at last, steady in his grip. "Then it begins."

The shadow lunged, limbs scraping stone, movements violent but imprecise. Cain sidestepped, blade slashing across one extended arm. No blood, only a hiss like steam. The thing recoiled, shrieking soundlessly.

Outside, Susan intercepted. Steel met claws, a blur of cloak and movement. Her strikes were calculated, efficient, forcing the smaller scouts back step by step.

Hunter fired from the rooftops, a bolt piercing the third figure mid-leap. It collapsed across a chimney, limbs twitching, before rolling into the street below.

Cain pressed forward. His blade struck low, severing the shadow's leg. It collapsed, screeching without a mouth, trying to pull itself forward. Cain ended it with a clean downward strike. The body dissolved into nothing, as if it had never been.

Silence rushed back into the alley. The market noise carried on untouched. Cain stood still, listening, measuring.

Steve's voice returned, sharp now. "Distortions collapsing. Signals retreating. They didn't expect resistance that fast."

Cain wiped the blade on his sleeve. "They'll adapt. They always do."

Susan rejoined from the street, breathing steady. "That was only probing."

"Exactly," Cain replied. His eyes lifted to the rooftops where Hunter scanned the horizon. "They wanted reaction time. Now they have it."

Hunter's voice was quiet, certain. "Then next time, they'll come heavier."

Cain nodded once. "And we'll be ready heavier."

The crowd passed around them, oblivious. Cain sheathed his blade and turned back toward the broken workshop. His mind was already marking positions, adjusting routes, predicting the phantom's next move.

The city had shown its cracks again. The phantom had pressed against them, learning. But Cain had learned too. Every hesitation, every angle, every false step was recorded.

He walked through the market without looking back. Hunter followed above, Susan to his right, Steve in his ear. The city didn't notice them. That was how it had to be.

Beneath the noise and life, Cain felt the weight still coiled. The hunt hadn't ended. It never did.

Cain stood in the empty room again, shadows long across the walls. He spoke once, barely above a whisper. "Next time, they'll bleed. Not us." The silence carried the weight forward.