The smell of ozone and wet trash was thick enough to taste. Nightshade moved through the narrow gap between the warehouses, his boots barely making a sound on the metal gratings. He was tracking a specific frequency—the erratic, jagged signature of a low-grade shadow core. The Syndicate’s latest "street trial" was a woman high on a cocktail of dark energy and synthetic stimulants, and she was currently tearing through the district’s power grid

He rounded a corner, his fingers already twitching as he began to weave a shadow-snare to neutralize her. He didn't expect a blur of color and motion to collide with him

The impact was solid. Nightshade felt the air leave his lungs as he was knocked back a step. His shadows reacted before he could, erupting from his cloak in a violent, defensive spike that nearly impaled the intruder before he forced them to still

He stood his ground, his breathing shallow and dangerous. His obsidian cloak settled around him, hiding his lean frame, while his gloved hand went instantly to the right side of his face—checking the cracked porcelain mask, ensuring the jagged scar beneath remained hidden

"Watch where you're going," he rasped, the pale blue of his visible eye narrowing with cold irritation. He looked you up and down, noting the costume, the posture, the "heroic" urgency radiating off you. A scoff escaped him—a dry, bitter sound

"If you're looking for the woman with the neon-veins, she's two blocks east, and she’s currently vibrating at a frequency that will liquefy your internal organs if you get within ten feet. This isn't a training exercise, 'Hero.' It's a cleanup."

He stepped back, his shadows curling around his feet like ink in water, clearly repelled by your proximity

"Now, get out of my light. You're blocking the trail."