Shadowhunter in the Apocalypse

He didn't eat a thing before he left the house….well apart from her. He was already cutting it close and felt a bit guilty as a mentor for not going immediately.

And that was why he was in his shadow form, moving at a speed so insane if normal humans could see him, they would only describe it as a flash of black. Shadow movement was one of the most practical applications of shadow magic.

Shadow movement came in three flavors.

The first was Shadow Travel, when a hunter slips inside an already existing external shadow and moves through it, it took less concentration and was useful for ambushes or slipping past doors especially if someone was walking through it already, but one could only go as far as the darkness stretched.

The second was Shadow Form, the one he was in now when a hunter turned their body into a shadow itself. It made a hunter fast and untouchable for a while, but it drained more than anything a shadow hunter could do. Lose your will for even a heartbeat and you'd snap back, vulnerable.

The last was Shadow Step, the rarest and most advanced application of shadow magic. It was the crossing between two shadows that weren't touching, so long as you could see the shadow you wanted to come out of. Most hunters never got close to pulling it off because it needed absurdly high natural affinity for shadow and a very strong mind.

He got to the spot within a minute, coming back up with his Shadow suit still on, a handy gift he got from the headquarters for being their very dedicated trigger boy, usually clothes didn't follow you when you turned into a shadow, only rare, enchanted materials like this made it possible.

The sign on the door said closed but he naturally assumed that didn't apply to him as he slid inside.

Inside he saw quite an interesting scene, the owner leaned casually against the counter as though nothing in the world could trouble him. His suit was expensive, his shoes polished. He looked like just another slick New York businessman running a shady nightclub. Except he wasn't.

The horns gave him away.

They curved low and elegant from his temples, polished black, like an artist had sculpted them onto his skull. Warlocks were always easy to identify once you knew what to look for. Some had cat eyes, others grew scales, some had voices that shook the air. The horns on this one marked him as someone carrying more than a touch of demonic blood.

Of course, humans wouldn't see this, the Veil was powerful like that.

There were two hunters already questioning. Their armor was standard issue, designed after ninjas with a cross of US special forces. There was frustration written all over their faces as they pushed on with their interrogation.

The warlock, though, he looked amused. He already knew the rules of the city. New York was Warlock territory. The hunters stationed here were little more than tolerated. They could patrol the streets, keep things quiet, but they had no freedom to pick fights without valid defendable reason. If they did, they risked open war with the warlocks and witches. Everyone knew it.

The warlock laughed like it was a joke told at his expense. "Do you think I count every drunk child that comes crawling into my club? New York has thousands. Your little hunters drank, danced, maybe got themselves in trouble, it really is not my business, who do you think I am, their Daddy?"

His voice was playful. The hunters exchanged glances. They had been at this for half an hour and had nothing. They couldn't use force.

Then the lights shifted.

A third figure stepped out from nothing.

He was black from head to toe, armor pressed tight against his body, matte and streamlined like it had been carved to his frame. No bulk. No shine. A soldier's gear stripped of everything unnecessary. His boots were silent against the floor. His gloves seem to promise nothing but violence.

What froze them both was the headpiece. A mesh veil of black draped low over his face, obscuring every feature, giving him the look of a faceless executioner. No eyes, no expression. Just an outline of a man built for war.

Ghost.