I never had much. Just a name, a blade, and a place in the world where no one looked too hard at what you did—so long as you did it fast. The slums don't raise saints. They raise survivors.
And I was good at surviving.
The backstreets were mine long before the Black Hounds started paying me to make people scream in them. Tonight was no different. Same filth. Same shadows. Same stench of blood and rot that clung to your clothes no matter how much you tried to wash it off.
The alley smelled like death. Not fresh, either—old and clinging, like the city itself had exhaled through a grave. Light from a rusted lantern overhead flickered across the cracked bricks, catching every smear of blood like a painter showing off his worst work.
I wiped my shortsword on a piece of ragged cloth, turning the blade until the metal gleamed again. At my feet, the man we dragged here wasn't moving much anymore. His wrists were bound, arms twisted behind him so tightly his shoulders were starting to go purple. That was Torik's work. The bastard always overdid it.
The man's face was a mess—swollen, broken, leaking blood from too many places to count. His good eye darted around in panic, while the other was just a lump of purple flesh. I could hear him breathing, barely, ragged and wet like each inhale was dragging him deeper into a hole he didn't want to enter.
Torik, big bastard with the hound tattoo on his throat, leaned forward. "We ain't got all night, friend. Tell us who's runnin' the whole show."
Rikard—the tall one with a face that looked like it lost a fight with a cheese grater—grinned. "Still actin' tough. Hells, I love this part." He shot me a glance. "What do you say, Ayan? Think he's got more in him, or should we let Black Eye show him what it means to scream without breath?"
The man wheezed, coughed, and managed a defiant rasp. "I told you… not sayin' a godsdamn thing. Kill me."
My mouth twitched. You dumb bastard. That was your last chance.
I crouched in front of him and reached for the strap of my eyepatch.
Behind me, the others went still. Even Torik's breath slowed.
The leather came free with a whisper, and the air changed. I didn't need to look up to know what was happening. I'd seen it too many times before. Hell, I felt it. Like something crawling just under my skin, stretching from the socket beneath the patch and radiating outward like cold lightning.
The man's back arched. His breath caught. Then came the fear.
Not the kind you yell and fight through. No, this was pure, paralyzing, soul-ripping terror. His whole body convulsed. His hands flexed as if to claw at his own mind and tear out whatever was happening inside it.
He was choking on air. Eyes wide, jaw trembling, muscles twitching. He wasn't looking at me anymore—he was looking through me. Or maybe at something that stood behind my eyes.
"P-please…" he whimpered. It wasn't a threat anymore. Not even a plea. Just a broken whisper from a man unraveling.
I blinked. Then the patch slipped back into place. That was enough.
He crumpled like a sack of old bones, curling in on himself like he wanted to crawl back into the earth.
I stood up, not saying a word.
The other Hounds around me—the ones who joked just seconds ago—stared like they were hoping they hadn't seen what they just saw. Cowards. Every one of them. They liked to act hard until real fear walked into the room.
"Talk," I said, voice flat.
The man's lips barely moved. "I'll tell you everything," he whispered. "Just don't… don't make me feel that again."
The silence broke with laughter. Cheap, hollow stuff. Relief dressed up as amusement. Torik barked a laugh and slapped Rikard's shoulder. "Told ya. Nobody stays quiet after Black Eye stares 'em down."
"Job well done," Rikard said, nudging my arm like we were friends. "We'll handle the rest. You earned your coin, yeah?"
I didn't respond. I wasn't there for praise.
"Where's my pay?" I asked instead.
Rikard snorted. "Ask Jorven. He's the purse tonight."
Figures.
Without another word, I turned and walked. I could feel their eyes on my back until the alley swallowed me.
---
The streets were mostly quiet. Drunks here and there, a few rats bigger than cats scurrying into the cracks. I didn't mind the silence. It gave me space to think.
Just one more payout. That's all I need. Then I'm gone.
The guild fee wasn't cheap, but it was cleaner than this life. And if I got the cut they promised, I'd finally have enough to pay it. I could stop working with dogs like Rikard and Torik. I could finally choose my jobs.
I could be something more than a weapon for hire.
But as I walked past another Hound lounging near a broken fountain, I made sure my face gave nothing away. No hope. No excitement. Just cold, bored silence.
These bastards could smell hope like wolves smell blood.
The warehouse came into view, a squat, rust-covered beast of a building with a roofline that looked like broken teeth. On the side wall, a snarling black hound had been painted in wide red strokes—sloppy, mean, and proud of it.
Subtle as always.
I stepped through the main doors.
Inside, the stench was stronger. Oil, sweat, smoke, unwashed bodies. Thugs sat around tables playing cards or arguing over dice. A few weapons clattered as someone cleaned them in a corner.
My eyes swept the place until I saw Jorven—thin, rat-faced, always smiling like he'd just tricked you and couldn't wait to see you find out.
He was sitting behind a counter wrapped in barbed wire, counting coins like they were prayers.
I stepped up. "Where's my cut?"
He didn't look up. "Ayan. Black Eye. Good to see you."
"Cut. For the month."
He dropped a coin onto the pile with a clink. "Ah. That. Yeah. See… bit of a situation."
My fingers twitched. "What situation?"
"Times are tight. Can't pay out full to everyone right now. Y'know how it is. Priorities."
"You've got more than enough in that pile to pay me double."
"Maybe." His smile widened. "But it ain't up to me, is it? Big boss decides. I just hold the purse."
"You can't keep screwing me over."
"Oh yeah? What're you gonna do about it, huh?" He leaned forward, that grin of his stretching like a split in his face. "You're tough, sure, but you ain't untouchable. You're still just a kid."
"I'm sixteen."
"Exactly. A pup playing with wolves."
I stared at him. Every inch of me wanted to reach over that barbed counter and smash his smug teeth in. But that's not how it worked. Not here. I knew the rules too well.
"You owe me," I said.
"And I like you, really," Jorven said, like that made it better. "But this? This is business. Go cry to the boss if you've got a problem."
My jaw tightened. Fine. Not here. Not like this.
I took a slow step back and forced a smile. "Sure. No problem."
He blinked. Didn't expect that. He'd seen me mad before. Never seen me calm when I should be mad. That scared him more.
I left the warehouse without looking back.
The door clanged shut behind me, the sound echoing into the empty street like a warning bell.
I didn't slow my steps until I'd turned three corners, cut down a dead-end path, and slipped behind the mold-ridden remains of an abandoned shrine. There, where the streetlamps didn't reach, I exhaled. Slow. Controlled.
They think I'm a pup.
Jorven's voice rang in my ears like poison: "Go cry to the boss if you've got a problem."
I clenched my jaw until it ached. My hand hovered over my eyepatch. I could feel the heat pulsing from underneath, like it was angry too.
"They owe me," I muttered aloud. "They'll pay. Every damn one of them."
---
I didn't go home.
Instead, I spent the next three hours watching the warehouse from a perch two buildings over. The Black Hounds were predictable. Sloppy. They got cocky months ago. Thought nobody'd ever come for them because they owned half the street gangs south of Red Row.
They forgot who I am.
At midnight, Torik and Rikard stumbled out, drunk and laughing like fools, dragging two girls who looked more exhausted than willing. The front entrance closed behind them. Jorven stayed behind, of course. Counting coins. He never left before dawn.
By one, only four Hounds were left inside—two guarding the main floor, one dozing near the back door, and Jorven in the counting room. The rest were probably passed out drunk in the upper quarters or snoring in the weapon bunk. Sloppy. Lazy. Soft.
Perfect.
---
I hit the back first.
The dozing guard didn't hear me until the blade slid between his ribs. No sound but the wet gasp of air escaping his lungs. I laid him down gently and stepped over his twitching boots.
The inside of the warehouse was dark, the torches left burning low. I moved like I was born for it—low, fast, silent.
The first floor was easy.
Two guards, both facing the wrong way. I didn't even have to draw my blade for the first one. Just grabbed his mouth, twisted his neck. Crunch. The second saw me. Started to yell.
Too slow.
My short sword cut through the meat of his thigh, dropping him. Then I buried the hilt in his temple. He twitched once. Then he was still.
---
I made my way to the counting room.
The door was thick, reinforced. But the window above it wasn't locked. They never thought someone small enough would climb through.
I did.
I dropped behind Jorven like a ghost.
He didn't even look up. Just mumbled something about numbers and scratched at his ledger. His fingers moved slowly across a pile of silver and copper.
I stepped forward, let my shadow fall across the table.
He looked up.
"Wha—Ayan?"
The smile died on his face the second he saw my eyes.
"Wait—wait, listen, we can—"
I reached up.
He saw the motion, and panic bloomed in his face. "No! Don't! Don't use it in here! There's no one to see it! Just take the money, godsdamn it!"
I paused. Hand hovering over the eyepatch.
"I'm not here for just money," I said, voice low. "I'm here because you think I'm a dog. You think I don't bite."
He scrambled backward. Knocked over his stool. "I was just—orders! You know how it is! Boss says who gets paid! It wasn't personal!"
"It is now."
Then I pulled the eyepatch off.
The scream that followed didn't echo—it sank.
The eye didn't glow. It didn't bleed light like some pretty cursed jewel. No. The thing behind the patch was darkness. A void. And within that void, something moved.
Jorven's knees buckled. He collapsed against the coin table, choking on his own breath. His hands trembled, clawing at the air as if drowning in something only he could see.
I stepped forward. One slow, heavy step at a time.
"No," he whimpered. "Please… please, not the Eye again—"
He didn't finish the sentence.
His head hit the floorboards with a sickening thud, drool pooling beneath his open mouth. His body convulsed. Once. Twice. Then nothing.
He was alive. Technically.
But I knew the look. He'd never be the same again. He'd spend the rest of his life screaming at corners and begging shadows to stop whispering.
Good.
I pulled the eyepatch back down.
The room was quiet again. The air tasted like ash.
I walked to the table, grabbed a burlap coin sack, and swept half the coins in with one arm. Not all of them. Just what I was owed. No more. No less.
Then I picked up the ledger and flipped to the last few pages.
Names. Payments. Drops. Orders. Bribes.
Everything.
I tucked the ledger into my coat.
---
By the time I left, the moon was beginning to sink behind the rooftops. The sky was a deep, sullen purple. Birds hadn't started yet. The city held its breath.
I felt calm.
Now they'll know what I am.
---
I made it five blocks before I saw the boy.
Small. Skinny. Filthy.
He looked like me, two years ago—back when I still slept in drainpipes and fought stray dogs for meat scraps. He sat against a wall near a broken cart, holding something close to his chest. I slowed as I passed.
It was a scarf. Tattered and faded.
I knew that scarf.
"Where'd you get that?" I asked.
The boy blinked. "My brother gave it to me."
I crouched. "Your brother. He have a name?"
"Kael."
My chest tightened.
Kael had been one of ours. A runner for the Hounds. Not a fighter—just a kid who carried messages and watched doors. Quiet. Careful. Dead, now.
They said it was an accident.
I'd never believed them.
"Where's your brother now?" I asked.
The boy looked away.
Of course.
I stood slowly, the scarf still clutched in his hands. He was too young to cry properly—just shivering with that quiet, dry kind of grief that turns people into monsters later.
"You got a place to sleep?"
He shook his head.
"Come with me," I said. "I've got food. You can eat."
He hesitated.
I didn't repeat myself.
Eventually, he stood and followed. Small steps. Scared, but curious. He didn't know who I was yet. Didn't know what I'd done, or what I carried under the eyepatch.
Maybe that was a good thing.
---
When we reached my hideout—an old bell tower long since forgotten—I let him eat first. Stale bread. Dried meat. A flask of water. He devoured it like it might vanish.
"Thank you," he mumbled.
I sat across from him, watching the city through the broken arch of the tower.
"Don't thank me," I said. "Just remember."
"Remember what?"
I looked down at the street, where shadows slithered between buildings.
"That they never stop coming. The ones who take. The ones who think fear is power." I paused. "And that someday, you'll have to become something worse to stop them."
He looked up at me. "Like you?"
I didn't answer.
We slept in shifts.
The boy—he said his name was Lio—curled against the wall, scarf pulled up to his chin. I sat by the window of the bell tower, watching the city turn pale with dawn.
The Eye didn't sleep. It never did.
Even behind the patch, it watched. Not with sight, but with something deeper—like a hunger, patient and cold. Some nights it whispered. Tonight, it was silent. I didn't know which was worse.
---
At sunrise, I met the contact.
Guild types don't show up in daylight unless they're desperate, but I'd sent a message two nights ago. Told them I was out. Told them I had coin, names, leverage. Told them I wanted in.
They sent her.
She wore a hooded cloak that shimmered like oil in water and smelled faintly of grave moss. Her eyes were too green to be natural. Her smile was all angles.
"Ayan," she said, voice like paper sliding across a blade. "The Black Eye himself."
I said nothing.
"You've stirred the hornet's nest. Jorven's missing. Rikard's dead. Torik has a hole in his neck. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"
I met her gaze. "They owed me."
"Mm. And the ledger?"
I handed it to her.
She flipped through it with practiced hands. Her fingers were thin, tattooed with tiny red runes that crawled ever so slightly when she wasn't looking at them.
"This buys you entry," she said. "But not protection."
"I didn't ask for protection."
She tilted her head. "You think the Eye will be enough?"
I didn't answer.
She smirked. "It won't be."
---
She led me down into the sewers beneath the Eastern Wall, through rusted gates and drowned crypts. The stink was thick—old water, blood, mold, and rot. And something else. Something like burnt glass.
The Guild's base was deep.
Not a tavern. Not a castle. Just a circular room of stone, lit by floating blue flames. Symbols lined the walls—sigils of power, binding, secrecy.
And they weren't alone.
Ten others waited. Hooded. Armed. Watching me like a fresh cut of meat on a butcher's table.
"You brought him here?" one spat. "You brought that thing here?"
"He's useful," said the woman.
"He's cursed."
"Maybe," I said. "But I kill clean."
That shut them up.
---
They called themselves the Circle—the Guild's inner blade. Mercenaries, informants, demonbinders, and exile-mages. Each one had a price, and none of them worked cheap.
They didn't trust me. That was fine. I didn't trust them either.
They asked questions. I gave answers. Short, cold, enough to prove I wasn't a fool.
But one of them—big, heavy hands, thick jaw, eyes like broken glass—he didn't like me.
"You think flashing that Eye makes you special?" he growled. "That's a plague in your skull, kid. You think you control it?"
"I keep it in check."
"For now."
He stepped forward, slow and deliberate. "What happens when it takes over?"
I didn't flinch.
"I'm still here," I said. "Aren't I?"
He moved fast. Too fast for a man his size.
His hand cracked across my face, knocking me sideways into the wall. I tasted blood.
"You're not one of us," he snarled. "You're a freak."
I stood.
And I took off the patch.
---
The room changed.
The air dropped ten degrees. The flame-lights flickered.
The big man froze. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. His eyes rolled white, limbs locking like stone.
He fell.
No one moved.
I replaced the patch slowly. Let the silence stretch.
Then I looked at the woman.
"Well?" I asked.
She blinked. Once. Twice.
Then she smiled.
"Welcome to the Guild."
---
We struck the next night.
Not for gold. Not for revenge. But to send a message.
The Black Hounds were planning a retaliation. Word was out: I'd betrayed them. I'd used it again. Jorven was catatonic. The boss put a bounty on my head—ten thousand crowns, dead or dismembered.
They wanted to make me a warning.
So I made them a massacre.
---
We hit the Opal Bridge warehouse just before midnight. The Guild worked like blades—clean, quick, merciless. I was the front line.
I stepped in through the front, eyepatch on, blade drawn.
The guards screamed.
They didn't last long.
Inside, I found the boss—Old Maul, the man who ran the Hounds from the shadows. He was big, smart, cruel. He'd taught me half of what I knew.
"You should've stayed in your cage, Ayan," he hissed. "You were good at killing. You could've ruled the undercity."
"I don't want to rule."
He drew two swords from his back—curved and silver-stained. Enchanted. Dangerous.
I took off the patch.
---
The fight wasn't fair.
It never is, with the Eye open.
He swung. I moved before the blade left his shoulder. I saw the line of death in his stance—the moment where his knees would give, where his left foot would slip on blood. I saw every fracture in his rhythm.
And the Eye... showed me more.
It showed me him. The truth under his skin. The fear. The guilt. The memory of a crying child whose name he didn't remember, face buried beneath coins.
He died with a whisper. Not a roar.
Just a whisper: "I'm sorry."
I didn't answer.
---
By dawn, the Black Hounds were ashes. Their banners burned. Their warehouses looted. Their people scattered like rats before a flood.
The Guild offered me coin. I took it.
They offered me rank. I declined.
All I wanted was silence.
---
Back at the tower, Lio sat waiting.
He looked up at me with wide eyes.
"Did you kill them?"
"Yes."
"All of them?"
I nodded.
He looked down at the scarf. Tied it tighter around his wrist.
"Good."
---
That night, I stood on the tower edge, watching the sky flicker purple with lightning far off to the west.
Storm season was coming.
And something else. Something worse.
The Eye pulsed under the patch. Not angry. Not hungry.
Excited.
Like it could sense what was coming.
I clenched my fists.
Let it come.
Let them come.
I was done running.