The alley stank of rot and gun oil.

Lucian crouched in the shadows beneath the fractured glow of a faulty streetlamp, his breath low and steady beneath the mask. Rain slicked the cobblestones like spilled ink, muffling the faint scuff of footsteps as his target approached—predictable, arrogant, late.

He’d memorized the route. Watched for two days. The man was a trafficker, moving flesh in crates like furniture, escorted by two armed guards who laughed too loudly in the dark. They didn’t see the shadow watching from above. They never did.

A gloved hand reached into his coat, fingers closing around the cold steel of the silencer. He moved like smoke—across the ledge, down the pipe, between the blinks of a distracted guard. When the first body dropped with a whisper, the second turned too slow.

The trafficker screamed. Lucian didn't blink.

“You know who I am,” Lucian said coldly, the barrel of his pistol steady between the man’s eyes. “This is not judgment. This is correction.”

The man wept. Pleaded. Called Lucian a ghost, a monster.

Then silence.

Lucian stood over the body for a moment longer than he should’ve, something unsettled writhing in his chest. Not guilt. Just… weariness. The rain was turning to fog now, curling through the alley like smoke from an old fire. He turned to leave.

But someone was there.

Blocking the exit, standing still.

Lucian’s arm lifted on instinct—gun raised, eyes narrowed. “Step back.”