God Ash: Remnants of the fallen.

Cain's boots crunched over shattered glass. The air reeked of burnt circuits and scorched concrete. Streetlights still flickered weakly, their pale glow stuttering like dying stars. City Z hadn't woken yet, but Cain knew it would. And when it did, the echoes of this night would crawl through every alley, every boardroom, every whispering corner of power.

Susan limped beside him, one arm clutched tight against her ribs. Her coat was in tatters, blood darkening the fabric in jagged blooms. "You think the grid will cover this up?" she asked, voice raw.

Cain didn't answer at first. He scanned the street, the abandoned cars, the broken neon signs buzzing faintly overhead. His blade was still sheathed but his hand rested on the hilt as if the night hadn't yet decided to leave him alone.

"They'll try," he said finally. "But this city's too old. Too loud. Secrets don't stay buried here. They rot. Then they rise."

Susan gave a tired, humorless laugh. "Like you, then."

Cain didn't bite. His silence stretched, heavy as the smog rolling in from the docks. He could already feel eyes on him—not the creature's, not anymore. Human eyes. Watching from darkened windows, waiting for explanations that would never come.

Steve's voice cracked through the comm again. "I'm pulling feeds now. Cameras caught fragments, but nothing clear. You've got a slim window before someone in a suit asks the wrong questions. Get moving."

Cain turned toward the heart of the city. The towers loomed, their mirrored glass catching the first smear of dawn. To most, they were symbols of order, progress, control. To Cain, they were mausoleums. Monuments to every lie built into the bones of Aderra.

The silence dragged too long. Susan nudged him with her elbow, wincing at the pain it caused her ribs. "We can't walk back in silence. Say something."

Cain's eyes tracked the horizon. "It's not silence. It's listening."

"For what?"

He didn't answer right away. The city spoke in ways only Cain seemed to hear: the grind of machinery buried beneath streets, the pulse of generators, the way even the smog seemed to breathe in rhythm with unseen lungs. Every beat, every shift, was a reminder. The city wasn't dead. It was hungry.

"We're standing on its throat," Cain said at last. "But it isn't choking. It's waiting."

Susan muttered a curse. "And here I thought you couldn't get darker."

They moved again. The road sloped toward District Twelve, where the scars of old riots still marked the walls. Cain remembered those nights—the fire, the chants, the soldiers marching with rifles raised. He remembered how quickly it had ended, how quickly the city had swallowed the memory whole.

This was the same. Different costumes, different monsters, same hunger.

By the time they reached the safehouse, Susan's breath had gone shallow. Cain pushed the door open and guided her inside, careful not to let his grip show how much she was shaking. The room smelled of dust and metal oil, a place meant for hiding, not for healing.

"Sit," Cain ordered.

Susan obeyed, lowering herself onto the battered couch. Her hand trembled as she reached for a pack of cigarettes on the table. Cain snatched it first, lit one, then handed it to her. She took a drag like it was the only medicine she trusted.

"Tell me something," she said through the smoke. "When you looked at that thing… what did you see?"

Cain didn't sit. He stood by the window, watching the faint traffic beginning to stir below. His reflection ghosted against the glass, eyes hard, face drawn like a man carved from ash.

"I saw proof," he said.

"Of what?"

"That this city doesn't belong to us. Never did."

Susan exhaled a thin ribbon of smoke. "And what—belongs to them instead?"

Cain's silence was sharper than any answer. His grip tightened on the window frame until the wood cracked beneath his fingers.

Steve's voice broke in again, static-ridden. "Cain. You need to hear this. Grid just flagged your name. Someone's asking questions already. You've got less than an hour before the wrong doors get kicked open."

Cain finally sat, dragging a chair close enough that Susan could see the weariness settling into his face. Not weakness—just the endless weight of a man who had lived too long with the city pressing down on him.

"They're coming for us," Susan said.

"They always were," Cain replied.

"And you're not afraid?"

Cain shook his head once. "Fear's a luxury. I gave it up years ago."

The cigarette burned down between Susan's fingers. She watched the smoke curl upward, soft and fragile against the stale air. "Then what do we do?"

Cain's eyes flicked to the blade leaning against the wall. His answer came low, steady, final.

"We don't run. We don't hide. We let them come. And when they do, we make sure they never walk back out."

The city groaned outside, gears grinding in the distance like a beast stirring from restless sleep. Cain's hand brushed the hilt of his sword again, the weight familiar, inevitable.

The night was over. The war wasn't.

Cain wiped the edge of his blade against the stone, leaving a smear of black across the wall. The echoes of the last clash still hung in the air, sharp as broken glass, but he didn't linger on them. His eyes were already searching, measuring, hunting the next shadow. City Z never gave its secrets freely; it demanded a toll, and Cain had long since learned to pay it in patience and blood.

Behind him, Susan adjusted her cloak, the faintest shift of fabric swallowed by the wind. "You hear that?" she whispered.

Cain nodded once. There was movement up ahead—too careful to be a drunk, too heavy to be stray animals. He lifted a hand, signaling silence. Hunter's crossbow clicked softly into place, a sound like a nail in a coffin.

"Three of them," Cain muttered under his breath. "Testing routes."

Steve's voice flickered in their earpieces. "I'll blind the next two alleys. Funnel them where we want."

Cain's mouth curved into something that might have been a smile, if it weren't so devoid of warmth. "Good. Let's bleed them slow."

The hunt tightened again, coils drawing in, every corner a blade waiting to strike.