God Ash: Remnants of the fallen.

Perfect — I'll write the next chapter for God Ash: Remnants of the Fallen, then run a whitespace word count to make sure it lands between 1000–1100 words (your preferred range).

Here we go:

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Chapter [X]

Cain's boots struck the damp pavement like hammer blows. The rain had stopped, but the streets of City Z still shimmered with a sickly sheen, neon bleeding into puddles that reflected a sky too heavy for dawn. The storm had rinsed the blood away, yet Cain knew the stains remained. The city never forgot. It only covered its scars with more rot.

Susan followed at a slower pace, ribs bound tight beneath her coat. She was moving, though—because Cain demanded it, because stopping meant being hunted. Steve's voice flickered through the comm in uneven bursts, his systems strained from overwork. Hunter was already ahead, silent, mapping routes only Cain could fully read.

Every street was a vein. Every alley a capillary. Cain felt the city's circulation beneath his feet, pulsing and twitching like a living thing. The phantom hadn't died last night. It had only been wounded, and wounded things always came back angrier.

"District Ten's awake," Steve warned. "Markets are filling, traffic's swelling, feeds are full of chatter. If you're still moving through open streets, you'll get flagged."

Cain grunted. "Let them flag us. If they want answers, they'll have to dig deeper than they're willing."

Susan shot him a look—half exasperation, half respect. "You say that like you've already planned what happens when they do."

Cain's silence was enough.

They cut through a narrow lane where graffiti sprawled in layers, names of dead gangs scratched over by the marks of newer, hungrier ones. Dogs barked somewhere behind steel gates. The smell of oil and waste hung heavy. Cain stopped, lifting his hand.

Hunter dropped from a balcony above, landing without a sound. He motioned eastward, two fingers sharp against the air. Cain's gaze followed. Three figures, cloaked, moving too carefully to be mere civilians. Their pace measured, their line of sight purposeful.

"Them?" Susan whispered.

"Scouts," Cain said. "Not grid. Not locals."

Hunter's nod was grim confirmation.

Steve's voice crackled again, faint with interference. "I'm tracing chatter—three signals clustered near your location. Unknown encryption. That's not city-issued. They're watching you, Cain."

Cain pulled his blade free, its surface catching only the dimmest scraps of light. "Then let them watch."

The three cloaked figures stepped into view. Their hoods hung low, faces unseen. But Cain could tell by their gait—synchronized, almost rehearsed—that they were not here by accident. One carried a case, long and rectangular. Another gripped something hidden beneath the folds of his cloak. The third simply walked, but Cain felt the weight of its presence press against him like a tide.

Susan hissed, low. "That one in the middle. Doesn't move like a man."

Cain felt it too. The stride was wrong. Not clumsy, not hesitant—just… constructed. A rhythm built by design, not born of instinct.

The first figure raised a hand, palm open. A gesture of parley. Cain didn't lower his blade.

"You've been expected," a voice called out. It was metallic, processed, like wires vibrating against steel.

Susan stiffened. Hunter shifted, ready to strike.

Cain didn't blink. "Expected by who?"

The figure tilted its head. "By the ones who built this city. By the ones who will tear it back down."

Cain's jaw tightened. "Then they should've come themselves."

The second figure dropped the case onto the ground. The click of its locks echoed like a gunshot. The lid opened—and inside, nestled against dark padding, lay a mask. Pale, faceless, its surface veined with faint circuitry that pulsed in rhythm with some unseen heart.

Susan drew in a sharp breath. "What the hell is that?"

The voice answered. "An invitation."

Hunter's crossbow rose like a whisper. Cain lifted a hand, halting him. He stepped closer, eyes fixed on the mask. Something about it—it wasn't just an object. It radiated intent. Hunger.

The third figure finally spoke, voice low and resonant. "Take it, Cain. Become what the city already believes you are."

The weight of the words pressed against him, heavier than the dawn sky.

Susan snapped, voice harsh. "Don't touch it."

Cain didn't move. He stared, not at the mask, but at his reflection warped across its pale surface. For a moment, he thought he saw another face staring back. Older. Broken. Familiar.

Then the first figure spoke again. "Refuse, and the city consumes you. Accept, and you consume it."

The safehouse smelled of rust and rain-soaked concrete when they finally pushed inside. The walls were bare, stripped down to foundations, as if whoever had built the place had expected it to be abandoned as quickly as it was used.

Susan dropped heavily onto a chair, her face pale, her ribs protesting with every breath. She dragged a rag across her face, smearing soot more than wiping it away. "You ever think maybe this city just… wants us gone?"

Cain didn't sit. He leaned against the wall, blade still close, shoulders taut. His eyes didn't leave the boarded window. "Cities don't want," he said. "They consume. If we're still here, it's because we haven't been chewed through yet."

Hunter stood near the door, motionless as a shadow. His silence said enough—he agreed with neither of them, but he didn't argue.

Steve's voice crackled faintly in their ears. "I've pulled fragments from the feeds. That mask—it's appeared before. Not often. Twice, maybe three times in the last decade. Each time followed by… something big." His voice faltered. "Riots. Vanishings. A whole block collapsing in District Six."

Susan cursed under her breath. "And they thought Cain should wear it?"

Cain's jaw worked, but he said nothing.

Steve hesitated before speaking again. "I don't know who they are yet. But they've been watching. Planning. The signals I tracked—they weren't local. They were tunneled through something deeper. Older."

Cain finally turned from the window, his eyes dark. "Then we find them. Before they decide the city doesn't need us alive."

The room fell silent. Outside, the gears of City Z groaned again, as if the streets themselves shifted under the weight of unspoken truths.

And Cain knew—the game had only just begun.