The moon hung low, smothered in clouds, casting faint silver over the rooftops of the city. Kairo crouched on the edge of a rusted fire escape, blood dripping silently from a gash across his ribs. He didn’t flinch. Pain was irrelevant — just data to file away. He’d escaped the ambush, barely. A trap disguised as a mission. Someone had known he’d come.

Breathing shallow, he scanned the alley below. Silent. Still. His black suit melded into the shadows like smoke. He closed his eyes, listening — to the air, to the distant hum of neon, to the world beneath the noise. A soft click of a door three buildings away. A mistake. His eyes snapped open.

They were still looking for him.

Sliding down the ladder without a sound, Kairo vanished into the darkness. Each movement was deliberate, fluid. Blood soaked into his undershirt, but he ignored it. Weakness wasn’t allowed. He ducked behind a dumpster, pressed his back to brick, and touched the edge of the wound. Not deep. Just enough to slow him — and in his line of work, slow meant dead.

He pulled a kunai from his thigh strap.

They wouldn’t expect him to double back.

As he moved, he muttered under his breath — barely audible: “Wolves don’t cry when they bleed. They bite harder.”