God Ash: Remnants of the fallen.

Cain didn't sleep. Nights weren't for sleep where he lived. They were for movement, for listening, for setting traps the city couldn't see. He moved the same streets, noting small things—the way rain pooled in one gutter and ignored another, the size of a crack in a pavement stone—that separated being noticed from becoming a story.

Susan lay on the safehouse couch, bandages tight over ribs that wouldn't let her rest. She tried to sleep; the tightness in her jaw betrayed her. Steve hunched at a bank of battered screens, swearing at pixels. Hunter sat in the corner with a crossbow, methodically cleaning and rebuilding it as if that motion steadied him.

They waited. The quiet built pressure in Cain's chest, and his hands steadied with it.

"Feeds are ugly," Steve said. "They're spiking across three quarters. The mask pattern's broadcasting in clusters. Whoever pushed it wants people to look."

The mask was an invitation. Invitations didn't arrive without purpose.

"Why show themselves?" Susan asked.

"Because exposure is the bait," Cain said. "To change a city you don't whisper. You make spectacle. You force people to pick."

"Spectacles draw badges and money," Steve said. "Orders that cut cleaner than street knives."

"Orders are management," Cain said. "We will be the disorder beneath their lines."

They moved after dusk. Darkness didn't hide them; it amplified small sounds until those sounds were weapons. Cain walked against the city's rhythm until his steps read as accidents. Then they struck.

Hunter led on roofs. Cain and Susan took alleys with busted lights and abandoned stalls. A market smelled of old fruit and tobacco—helpful cover for a man's sweat and fear.

Steve's voice threaded through their comm. "East grid flares. Siphons in bursts. They want blind spots—cameras blink out, then come back with curated angles."

"Curated victims," Cain said.

At the choke point Cain had marked—a narrow bridge with rusting containers—plans simplified. Simplicity held under panic.

"Hunter, east. Susan, west. I'll meet them at the bridge."

Hunter nodded and vanished. Susan set her jaw. Cain checked the blade, felt that familiar weight.

Steve fed the channel with crude chatter—shouts, a dropped crate, a woman's cry. The city consumed drama; the phantom consumed the city.

Shapes moved through fog: three, then more. Their gait was too practiced, steps placed where light would catch a face.

"Now," Cain whispered.

Hunter struck the flank. Susan burst with noise and motion. Cain met the center with steel. Heat and metal and cloth met. He moved without hesitation. No theatrics—just the grinding efficiency of surviving.

They fought without fanfare. These things didn't bleed like men. They seethed, broke into steam or sank into gutters as if the city reclaimed them. Cain's hands stayed steady. This was harvest, not mere war.

When the scuffle ended, the market lights hummed back. Sirens crawled the horizon. Steve's voice, breathless: "Footage's clean. Someone's watching in real time. They're smiling."

Cain wiped his blade on a tarpaulin. "Let them watch. We gave them the show. Now the work begins."

They harvested what mattered: a bead of wire with circuit traces, a fragment of cloth with woven sigils. Steve said small things could be a map.

"Who watches the watcher?" Susan asked, lighting a cigarette.

"You and I," Cain said. "We watch the seams. We map where their shadows touch the street. We learn their cadence."

Hunter cataloged patterns in silence. People peered from windows as squads of ordinary law rolled toward the noise. The audience gathered.

Back at the safehouse, Steve fed fragments into a scanner. Lines of code scrolled like a surgeon's notes. Susan rubbed her ribs. Hunter cleaned bolts.

Cain watched the street below. Neon flashed off puddles. A child cried, a man laughed. Life threaded through wounds like a stubborn weed.

"We drew blood," Cain said. "Not the kind that heals anything. But it's a start."

"Start of what?" Susan asked.

"Start of their mistake," Cain answered. "They wanted to be seen. We will give them a story they regret."

They had a rhythm: bait, watch, strike, disappear. Ugly. Effective.

Steve looked up. "There's a pattern in the circuitry. Not the mask itself—an old routing signature. Ghost channels nobody touches. This points to infrastructure knowledge. Not a gang. An organization."

Cain nodded. "Access and patience."

"Patience and money," Steve said. "Or patience and ideology. Either burns out eventually."

Susan's cigarette went unlit. "So we poke their wiring and wait for an explosion?"

"We don't poke," Cain said. "We open the wiring and see how they twitch. We force the hand that staged a theater to come backstage. We make them commit on camera."

Hunter spoke for the first time. "They'll regroup. They'll adapt. Ambushes won't be enough."

"We go deeper," Cain said. "We find who strings the lights. Steve, trace the ghost routes. I'll find the people who read those maps. Susan and Hunter, keep the streets hot."

They planned small moves: a relay dropped in District Four, a burned storefront left as bait, a false ledger placed where a courier would claim it. Rhythm mattered more than violence. Two nights of pressure, one night of retreat, then a hard strike where enemies were most exposed.

When plans set, they took shifts of sleep. Outside, City Z hummed ignorant and steady. Some nights, the city returned the prod with teeth.

Steve rubbed his eyes. "I can trace fragments, but it'll need a relay and quiet feeds. The grid's hot. Someone's hunting anomalies tied to our comms."

Cain met his gaze. "We balance noise and stillness. We become the thing that slips between the two."

Susan blew smoke into the lamplight. "And after? When we find them?"

"Then we make sure they can't pull the curtain closed again," Cain said. "We burn their playbook and their stage hands. We make their spectacle deadly and private."

Hunter's voice was nearly a murmur. "Until then, we learn."

Cain nodded without ceremony. He had no illusions about cost. They all signed on anyway—not for glory, but because the city had taught them survival required choice.

He stood at the window and watched the neon blink. An old woman peered, then pulled her curtains closed. A child's cry drifted up. Faces like those were why he didn't want the city to burn. He wanted it to choose. Tonight they had moved the first piece. Tomorrow, they would push.