The night clung to the city like a thick, oppressive blanket, heavy with the weight of damp air and distant fog. High above the narrow, winding streets, Gavril Wyscar sat perched on the edge of a crumbling rooftop, shrouded in shadow. The ancient stone beneath him, weathered and cracked, seemed to blend into his figure, as if the darkness itself had molded him into its shape. The only thing that betrayed his presence were his eyes—piercing, cold, and unblinking—fixed on the maze of alleys below.

The moon hung low in the sky, veiled by drifting clouds that cast shifting patterns of light and shadow across the rooftops. In the thin slivers of pale moonlight, the cobblestones glistened with a faint sheen of moisture, remnants of the evening rain. The streets were empty, abandoned by those who feared what the night might bring. But Gavril feared nothing—not the night, not the silence, and certainly not the hidden dangers lurking in the depths of the alleys.

His breathing was slow, methodical, barely noticeable against the backdrop of the city’s faint sounds. The wind whispered through the streets, carrying with it the distant echoes of muffled footsteps and the occasional clatter of a loose shutter. Yet Gavril remained still, as if carved from stone, his figure melding seamlessly with the ancient architecture around him. His senses were on high alert, every nerve attuned to the subtle shifts in the environment.

From his vantage point, the city below was a labyrinth of narrow passageways and crooked buildings, their foundations sinking into the earth over decades of neglect. He could see the darkened windows of the surrounding tenements, their glass panes smeared with grime and age, concealing whatever secrets lay behind them. In the alleys, shadows moved in the corners of his vision—rats, most likely, scurrying through the filth in search of scraps. But Gavril’s gaze never wavered. He wasn’t here for rodents. The wind picked up, tugging at the loose folds of his cloak, but he didn’t flinch. He never did.