Ashen Cole learned quickly: darkness was better with a sense of humor.
Not because he liked jokes—he didn't—but because surviving in a world that tried to erase him demanded perspective.
The first lesson came in a corridor lined with fluorescent lights that flickered like they were alive. He had been handed a dossier labeled "Black Operations – Level Omega." The contents? Names, missions, weapons, and a lot of people he had never met—who were probably about to die.
He glanced at Nyx Vale, who followed him silently, arms folded, expression unreadable.
"Why am I reading this?" Ashen asked.
Nyx tilted her head. "Because knowing your enemies is preferable to learning about them while bleeding."
Ashen smirked. "Preferable? Sure. But learning while bleeding has… character development."
She didn't smile. Not yet.
The first mission briefing was classic military chaos disguised as efficiency.
"Unit designation: Solo Asset. Mission type: Extraction & Elimination. Authorization level: Ashen Cole only," the officer droned.
Ashen raised his hand. "Wait… you want me to go alone?"
"Yes," the officer said, voice dripping confidence. "Because you survived Unit Seven. We trust your judgment."
Ashen blinked. "Ah. So surviving a massacre qualifies me for… more massacres. Makes sense."
Nyx snorted—just slightly. Ashen considered it a victory.
He packed his gear, and as he left, he muttered to himself, "Officially dark. Officially alone. Officially sane. Probably."
Outside, the night air was cold and bitter. He checked his weapons. The guns didn't question him. They didn't betray him. They only worked.
Philosophy 101: Ashen thought, trust a machine over a man. It won't lie. It won't sell you out. It won't demand a bonus for surviving.
He walked down the alley, boots silent, mind active.
He stopped when a stray cat appeared.
The cat hissed.
Ashen crouched. "Hey. Relax. I'm also trying to eat tonight without being murdered."
The cat blinked. Apparently, it understood sarcasm. Or maybe it was plotting to kill him. Either way, companionship in a murder-filled world was overrated.
The mission was simple on paper: retrieve an informant and eliminate high-value targets.
Reality: always different.
Gunfire, explosions, screams—all the usual symphony of chaos.
Ashen ducked behind a crumbling wall, scanning with the neural interface. Every movement was calculated, efficient, deadly.
A group of soldiers rounded the corner. Ashen fired. One down. Two down. The last one tripped on rubble and fell into a puddle of… something unpleasant.
Ashen quipped to himself, "Congratulations. You've achieved maximum humiliation."
After the firefight, he found the informant: a nervous man hiding behind crates.
"You're Ashen Cole?" he stammered.
"Yes," Ashen replied. "I'm the nightmare your government promised you."
The man gulped. Ashen sighed.
Note to self: Maybe lighten up with metaphors. Humor improves morale. Or sanity. Or both.
They walked toward the extraction point. Ashen's neural implant pinged: "Analysis: probability of being betrayed by your own shadow—high."
He smirked. "Well, shadows never snitch."
Then Marcus appeared. Smiling. Too bright for midnight.
"Cole," Marcus said. "Glad to see you alive."
Ashen tilted his head. "You again. Should I smile? Bow? Accept your humble apology in three installments?"
Marcus laughed nervously. "No. Just… stay alive, okay? You're needed."
Ashen shrugged. "I'm flattered. Truly. The world would crumble without me."
The informant groaned. Ashen ignored him.
Hours later, back at the safe house, Ashen sat cross-legged on a steel table, cleaning weapons.
Nyx entered, leaning casually against the wall. "You make a lot of noise when you do that."
"Noise? These are my companions," Ashen replied. "Loyal, silent, obedient. Unlike most humans."
She smirked faintly. "And what do you think of yourself?"
Ashen looked up. "I'm a very polite psychopath with excellent table manners."
Nyx tilted her head. "I think that's accurate."
He cleaned another rifle, then whispered philosophically to himself:
If man is the measure of all things, and all men are liars, then the one who tells the truth in a world of lies is… amusingly alone.
He looked at Nyx. "You following this, or is that above your pay grade?"
She didn't answer. She simply observed, which was better. Silence was always informative.
Later, he sat by the window, watching the city glow under artificial lights.
He remembered Lena's face—the greed, the smile, the choice. Marcus's desperation. His own past: hunger, poverty, insignificance.
Ashen chuckled softly. "Funny, isn't it?"
Nyx raised an eyebrow. "What is?"
"Life," he said. "Everyone wants to be remembered. But they only survive if someone else pays for them. And then, sometimes, the one paying… becomes the one laughing last."
Nyx's lips curved. "You're very dramatic for someone officially dark."
Ashen grinned. "Officially. Dark. But also… officially hilarious. In a grim way."
The hum of the neural implant pulsed gently in his skull. It approved. Or maybe it was amused. Hard to tell.
That night, he dreamed briefly: a dinner with Marcus and Lena. Marcus kept apologizing for using him. Lena kept demanding returns. Ashen sat at the head of the table, smiling faintly, knives on either side.
He woke with a start. Humor faded. Darkness remained.
He rose and packed for the next mission.
Officially dark. Officially free. Officially unstoppable.
But one thought lingered: betrayal is a lot like a bad joke. If you don't get it, you die.
And Ashen? He understood.
As he exited the safe house, he noticed movement in the shadows. Familiar steps. Quiet. Calculated.
A note slid under his boot.
He picked it up. Four words, typed neatly:
"Lena chose Marcus first."
Ashen smiled faintly.
"Officially dark," he whispered. "Now officially personal."
The night swallowed him.