The first strike did not echo—it roared. By dawn, the city was awake with blood-soaked rumors. The Wolves had returned. Merchants whispered it behind shuttered stalls, children overheard it in hushed voices, and the gangs spat it through clenched teeth. Fear spread like fire.
But fear often breeds rage.
Moraku, the self-proclaimed king of the council, gathered his lieutenants in a glass tower overlooking the slums. His eyes burned red with fury. "They slaughtered my men. They dared to stain our ground with their filth. Then let the city burn until they crawl out."
And so the order was given: every mercenary, every assassin, every loyal blade would hunt the Wolves.
The streets bled first. Innocents caught in the web of vengeance paid with coin and flesh. The markets were no longer safe—men with axes demanded names, and those who refused vanished by nightfall. The Wolves had become a ghost story, and everyone was punished for whispering it.
Ayu and Luv watched from the rooftops. Smoke curled from torched houses. Screams echoed through the alleys. Ayu's jaw tightened, her eyes shimmering with restrained fury.
"This is on us," she whispered.
"No," Luv replied, his voice flat but heavy. "This is on them. They want us out in the open." His gaze swept over the chaos, cold and sharp. "So let's give them what they want."
That night, the Wolves struck again—but not with blades. With fire.
A convoy of assassins, cloaked in crimson scarves, marched through the industrial district. Their boots pounded the cobblestones, torches lighting their path. They didn't notice the trail of oil spilling behind them, the barrels stacked carelessly above.
When Ayu dropped the spark, the world erupted.
Flames devoured the night, painting the sky orange. Screams pierced the firestorm as men clawed at their burning clothes, collapsing into ash and cinder. Above, on the steel beams of a half-built factory, Ayu and Luv stood like reapers watching their harvest.
"Every step they take to hunt us," Ayu said, her voice like steel, "leads them deeper into the grave."
But the retaliation was not without cost.
By morning, bounty posters plastered the city walls—Ayu's sharp emerald eyes and Luv's cold silhouette etched in black ink. Every hunter, every blade for hire, every desperate soul smelled gold and glory.
The Wolves were no longer just legends.
They were prey.
In the shadows of the burning streets, a single figure watched the chaos unfold. Cloaked in black, his face hidden, his voice like poison:
"Let them dance. When they're tired, I'll cut their throats myself."
The game had changed.