The weather had been bad all day—nothing unusual for a country pressed against the North Sea—but tonight, the dark clouds unspooled a sky so gray it made even the lamps burn dim, their halos swallowed by the inescapable fog. A patient drizzle traced its fingers down the rusted drainpipes, whispering across the museum's glass dome in a language no one could name.
Rotterdam's skyline blurred like a painting left too long in the water. It was the kind of weather that softened details, the time when edges blurred, and sound smudged and disappeared. The world felt muted, as if holding its breath for the man walking alone down the street. Milo loved it.
He wasn't close to the museum yet. He circled a block away, moving through the maintenance district where old lampposts flickered like half-kept promises, their shadows trembling in the puddles as he walked. His hood was drawn low, his coat plain and unremarkable. Nothing flashy tonight—just enough to vanish if he needed to.
The target would be unveiled tomorrow—he'd confirmed it the day before. He slipped in silently as the sky began to pale, that strange hour when night hesitates before embracing. Unlike the rest of the sleeping city, the museum was still awake—humming faintly with quiet tension.
Preparations for the installation lasted for the majority of the day. Police cruisers lingered at the corners since the afternoon, their blue lights pulsing faintly through the mist. Extra personnel clustered near every entry lane, their faces blurred by drizzle, yet even that could not hide the anxiety in the air. Security was so tight that even the café across from the annex had new eyes watching from behind the fogged glass.
Near the tent, two guards smoked beneath an overhang, their voices leaking past. "Starts tomorrow, yeah?" The other nodded. "They flew in two trucks' worth of gear. If this thing's fake, someone's going broke."
Milo didn't linger. He crossed a narrow alley, ducked beneath a scaffolding beam across from the museum's loading zone, and crouched under the edge of a rain barrier. From there, he traced the lines; first counting the steps between cameras and then watching and memorizing their rotation shifts—three fixed eyes, one dome, two mobile patrols that never stopped to talk. There were no dead zones at the rear gate.
Not a good night for heroes. But that was fine, tonight was just a rehearsal.
He pulled a folded printout from his pocket. It was a rough map of the museum grounds, ink-smudged and red-marked with guesses about everything from entry points to escape routes and maintenance gaps. The city had promised the mirror would be unveiled to the public at noon tomorrow, which meant this was his last chance to chart the place before it was flooded with press, tourists, and guards too alert for comfort.
He turned a corner and slowed as the tent came into view. White canvas, draped in shadow, concealed a pair of folded lighting rigs stacked beside the crates. But what caught his eye was the two technicians hunched under umbrellas, guiding a large rectangular object onto a wheeled lift.
A mirror—rumored to hold powers best left unnamed. Found at the base of a newly formed tower, its value had soared on fear and fascination—it was nothing less than a collector's fever dream.
Milo's eyes narrowed. He didn't believe in enchantment one bit. His cloak—now that was power. But this mirror? Well, it didn't matter anyway. Even if it was fake, someone would still pay a fortune for it.
And if it's real, he thought, and a glint rose behind his rain-specked lenses, well… I don't have to sell it. After all, who deserves it more than me?
The wind curled at his heels as he turned away, and the fog closed behind him.
—
High above, on the other side of the street, a dark figure watched in silence.
From his vantage point, Shin could clearly see most of the city. Below, several technicians moved frantically through the dim museum—running cables, setting sensors, prepping lights. Whatever was inside was valuable enough to make the whole district restless, but Shin's eyes didn't linger.
Someone else was moving below, with a measured motion that was too deliberate to ignore. Shin hadn't identified the man yet, but the outline was enough to tell a story. There was something unnatural in that stride—that calculated choice in his route, the way he paused where patrol routes overlapped, or how he paused where patrol coverage overlapped. The man's behavior was certainly unique; This wasn't some amateur testing his luck. This was someone planning a heist.
Which meant Shin's guess was right.
There was only one thing in Rotterdam that could tempt a flamboyant showman with a superiority complex like Wind God—a single item that had made the underground forums whispering for weeks.
He checked the time. Five past midnight.
His train had arrived three hours earlier. Since then, he'd crossed half the city on foot, stepping lightly across rooftops—tiny pulses of air cushioning his every leap. His coat rippled behind him as he vaulted a narrow gap and landed low on a terrace ledge.
The surface was slick. His back foot slipped a few centimeters before catching the metal frame. He paused with a slight surprise, then recalibrated immediately.
Don't be overconfident. Adjust the angle next time.
One more leap brought him to his target—the spire of a narrow, rain-streaked church overlooking the eastern end of the district. From here, he could see the outer museum zone, the maintenance streets, and the pattern of security patrols.
Shin closed his eyes and listened, letting the wind rush in, whispering in its unseen words. He exhaled as the currents filled him—their grasp calm, rhythmic, alive—until he could sense every nuance—the displaced air flowing through the streets, the subtle movements of coats and shoes, the uneven rhythm of breath. Shin filtered the noise until it narrowed into something unusual—a presence moving with unstoppable purpose.
Someone was cutting through the city like a cloud passing through the sky.
Now, in the present, the wind curled once more, its soft whistle sighing through the trees and cleaving the eaves and chimneys like a blade drawn slowly through the night.
Below, the man began to move again. Shin narrowed his eyes and looked above. The rain was falling harder now.
—
Thin sheets blurred the streetlights, turning sharp edges into halos. With the museum out of sight, Milo could walk more slowly. But even as he passed the last patrol, and the siren's light disappeared through the fog like an empty dream, his heart was racing strongly. His posture tightened, his breaths were shorter than usual. He didn't rush, but his glances began to linger.
Something wasn't right.
The storefront window reflected nothing but haze. But another, a block down, showed a faint flicker—a movement that didn't quite match his own. It was barely a shimmer, but enough motion to catch at the edge of his vision and tighten his gut.
From behind?
He turned casually, pretending to fix his coat collar.
Nothing. Just an empty sidewalk.A dirty cat sleeping under an old box was the only soul besides him. A neon sign hummed softly above a closed shop beside him. Nothing was out of place.
Still, something itched at the back of his mind—that fine thread of instinct whispering: You're not walking alone.
He adjusted his route and turned right after the next turn into a large square with an old bronze fountain standing crooked in the center, its basin half-filled with runoff. This part of the district was older and had very few cameras. That's why he always liked it.
And why he hated it now.
Because if someone was tailing him, this was where they'd close the gap.
He passed another alley. Still nothing, the rain changed and swelled into a deafening hiss—a wall of sound so intense it felt like Milo's eardrums might rupture under the pressure.
That was when Milo saw it.
A silhouette at the edge of his vision—the same one from earlier. Slipping into the dumpster lane. Not running. Not sneaking. Just walking—casually, unbothered.
He reached into his pocket, his fingers brushing the edge of the stolen badge. He held tightly. Even though he knew it wasn't of any use, the mere act of touching it grounded him. He told himself he was overreacting; A little paranoia was usual after a job, even after a small one.
He slowed at the fork where two narrow streets split—one leading to a set of dumpsters and broken fences, the other leading toward the main plaza. He paused, debating with himself which path to choose. Should he stay to ensure he wasn't followed, or should he hurry home?
The rain hissed louder in the alley now, puddles rippling with every gust of wind. His chest tightened uncontrollably. He kept telling himself it was nothing, but every instinct in his body screamed he was being watched.
Then—
Footsteps.
His heart raced as the sounds grew closer. Stronger. Louder. Whoever it was, they'd be on him soon. Milo clenched his fist. He is the Wind God, he cannot back down here.
A shape flickered at the edge of his vision—just long enough to catch the coat.
Then the figure turned down the dumpsters' path.Didn't even look back.
Milo waited. Ten seconds. Twenty.
Nothing.
His breath slowed.
See? You're just tired.
"You've done this before. You are the Wind God."
He turned toward the apartment entrance—
and a shoulder clipped his.
A light bump—not hard, but enough to make him turn. A man passed him—hood up, glasses fogged, his thumb tapping at his phone at a concerning speed. "Sorry," the stranger mumbled, his voice barely audible through the rain.
Milo watched him continue down the street. No pause. No look back.
Just another shape in the city's blur.
He shook his head and stepped inside.
He didn't know the phone had been recording.
Shin stopped walking once he rounded the block. The wind curled overhead like an invisible umbrella, scattering the rain before it could even touch him. He paused beneath an overhang, tapped the screen, and stopped the recording.
He didn't bother watching. He didn't need to. He already knew that man.
Tracksuit guy. The one from the supermarket.
It had taken a while to remember, but now—with the shape of the face caught clearly, it all made sense. The slight weight in the step, the residual pull in the air—it all clicked.
So not only did he survive, but he even obtained an artifact?
Impressive.
Shin tilted his head, watching Milo vanish behind the apartment doors. The cloak was genuine, and the movement was smooth, too. There was an unmistakable connection with the wind. It was subtle, sure—it was raw and untrained—but it was growing.
So not all of them just survived, he realized.
Some climbed and walked away, thinking they were gods.
Shin's expression didn't change. He turned and walked the other way, the wind veiling him until his figure dissolved into the rain.