The rain came down in curtains, heavy enough to drown out the city's usual midnight pulse. Streets that normally thrummed with delivery scooters, late-night taxis, and drunk laughter were deserted. Only the occasional gust whipped plastic bags across empty intersections. Lightning flickered far to the east, briefly turning the skyline into a negative photograph black towers against white sky.
Thirty floors below ground level in the Eclipse tower, the war room felt like a different planet.
The air was thick with the smell of overheated electronics, stale coffee, and the faint metallic tang of fear-sweat. Rows of technicians sat rigid in ergonomic chairs, faces illuminated by the cold blue-white glow of forty-seven screens. Some feeds showed static-laced thermal imaging: clusters of red human shapes moving fast. Others displayed high-definition CCTV: rain-slicked concrete, shattered chain-link fences, muzzle flashes blooming like brief flowers.
Kairo stood at the central island console, palms flat on the matte black surface, fingers splayed so wide the tendons stood out. His eyes never left the main feed the one labeled EAST-07 VAULT SECTOR. On screen, a figure in red armor the color of fresh blood drove an elbow through a steel security door. Sparks flew. The door folded inward like tinfoil.
"Shit… shit shit shit," Kairo muttered, voice cracking on the last syllable. He slammed his palm down once hard enough to make the console vibrate. "They're in. Eastern warehouse. They're already past the secondary checkpoint. That's the spiritual serum vault. They're going straight for it."
The word "serum" landed like a dropped blade. Several technicians flinched. No one spoke it out loud unless they had to. The serums were not just product they were leverage, currency, the difference between being a mid-tier syndicate and controlling the hidden currents of the city.
Lena, seated two stations over, was already pulling up overlay maps on her triple-monitor rig. Her fingers moved with practiced speed, but her breathing was shallow.
"How many?" she asked without looking up.
"Eighteen confirmed hostiles on thermal. At least six are armed heavy. And the lead…" Kairo swallowed. "They brought Crimson Fang."
The room seemed to lose five degrees.
Lena's hands paused. She turned her head slowly. "You're joking."
"Do I look like I'm joking?" Kairo snapped, then immediately softened his tone. "No. I'm not. Crimson Fang. Level 6 from the Assassin Assembly. The same bastard who turned the Dockside crew into abstract art last spring. Left thirty-two bodies and not one usable security still. He's laughing on the feed right now look."
He jabbed a finger at the secondary screen. Crimson Fang stood in the middle of the loading bay, red armor dripping rain and blood. He had one Eclipse guard pinned under his boot, casually crushing ribs while he waved at the nearest camera with mock courtesy. His laugh came through the audio feed short, ugly, distorted by cheap speakers.
Lena's face paled under the blue light. "That's not a raid. That's a humiliation. If he walks out with even one vial "
"He won't," came a voice from the rear of the room.
The 3rd Elder had entered silently gray suit, silver tie pin shaped like a crescent moon, hands folded behind his back. He was in his late fifties, hair still black, eyes the color of old steel. Everyone straightened instinctively.
"Elder," Kairo said, voice dropping to something closer to respect. "We were just "
"I heard." The Elder didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. "Crimson Fang is loud. Predictable. He wants us to panic. He wants us to send half the building in a desperate rush so he can bleed us dry before the real prize."
He stepped forward until he stood beside Kairo. The main screen now showed Crimson Fang kicking aside a fallen guard, boot leaving a red print on the concrete.
The Elder watched for three seconds.
Then he spoke again, calm as if reading a weather report.
"No need to worry."
He turned slightly toward Lena.
"I have already sent the blade."
The line wasn't even open. There was no call to make. The order had been given before anyone in the room had finished panicking.
Kairo let out a long breath through his nose. His shoulders dropped an inch. Lena closed her eyes for half a second, then resumed typing calmer now, almost mechanical.
The junior analyst at the far end whispered to the person beside him: "It's really happening."
The other technician just nodded once.
No one said the asset's name. They didn't have to.
On the main feed, Crimson Fang raised both arms wide, armor glinting under emergency lights.
"Come on, Eclipse!" he bellowed. "Send your best! I'm getting bored!"
Lightning flashed outside.
The feed flickered.
Then something changed.
At the extreme left edge of frame barely noticeable a silhouette appeared for one frame: long silver-white hair catching the light like liquid metal, black coat flowing behind it. Then gone.
No dramatic entrance. No warning shot.
Just movement.
And the sudden, absolute certainty that the rain would wash away everything except the memory of what it carried away.
The rain had not let up.
It drummed on the roof of the eastern warehouse like thousands of impatient fingers. Inside, the air smelled of gunpowder, wet concrete, and copper. Crimson Fang stood in the center of the loading bay, chest heaving, red armor streaked with rain and other people's blood. Around him lay the wreckage: overturned crates, shattered lights, bodies in Eclipse black-and-silver uniforms twisted at unnatural angles.
He grinned, teeth very white against the gore on his face.
"Still no one?" he called to the empty air. "Your elders must be shitting themselves up in that fancy tower."
He spat on the floor.
Then he turned toward the vault door thick, reinforced, biometric locks glowing faintly red.
One more hit. One more
A boot scraped softly on wet concrete behind him.
Crimson Fang spun, faster than most men could track.
Nothing.
Just rain dripping from the ceiling, pooling in shallow depressions.
He laughed again shorter this time.
"Playing hide and seek? Cute."
He took one step forward.
That was when the air shifted.
Not wind. Not temperature. Something heavier.
A flicker barely perceptible at the corner of his vision.
Then the silver-haired figure was simply there.
Close enough that rain dripped from long pale hair onto the red-plated chest plate.
Crimson Fang's eyes widened. His mouth opened to shout.
A single open palm struck the exact center of his solar plexus.
The impact made no loud noise no crack, no wet tear. Just a deep, muffled thump like someone dropping a dictionary onto carpet.
The red armor dented inward half an inch in a perfect circle.
Crimson Fang's eyes bulged. His breath stopped mid-inhale. A thin dark thread leaked from the corner of his mouth.
His knees folded.
He dropped straight down limp, heavy, dead before his back hit the ground.
Four remaining Kurogane enforcers froze, rifles half-raised.
They had time to register the pale face, the unmoving black coat, the silver hair untouched by blood or rain.
They did not have time for anything else.
He moved through them like a blade through silk.
Neck twisted soft pop.
Knee shattered, then throat crushed silent collapse.
Temple strike lights out.
Sternum caved with a palm heel internal rupture, no exit wound.
Four bodies joined the rest in less than seven seconds.
No screams. No spray. The blood already on the floor stayed where it was. None of it touched him.
He crossed the bay without breaking stride.
Pressed a concealed panel beside the vault door. It hissed open.
The case waited inside small, matte black, biometric seals glowing green.
He lifted it, tucked it under his arm, and turned.
The skylight above had been shattered earlier in the fighting.
He leaped.
Gone.
The rain kept falling, washing the loading bay clean except for the bodies.
Moon stood barefoot on the thick wool rug of the penthouse living room, thirty-eight floors above the storm.
The city spread out below like a galaxy laid flat lights blurred by rain-streaked glass, towers fading into gray mist. She wore loose white silk pajamas, hair falling in dark waves down her back. A half-empty mug of chamomile sat forgotten on the side table beside an open book she hadn't touched in twenty minutes.
Her tablet lit up on the coffee table. A single notification from the family's encrypted app.
Eastern asset secured. Incident contained.
She exhaled slowly relief, but distant, academic. The words were deliberately vague. They always were. She knew what "incident" meant in broad strokes: another problem the family had handled. Another rival pushed back. Another night where someone, somewhere, died so the Eclipse could keep its quiet grip on the city.
She didn't ask for details. She never had.
She walked to the window and pressed her palm against the cool glass. The storm looked almost beautiful from up here wild, chaotic, contained safely outside.
She had no idea who had been sent tonight.
She had no idea what he looked like.
She had no name to whisper.
The rain just kept falling.
And far below, in the dark between warehouse and tower, a silver-haired shadow moved through the city, expression blank, carrying a case no one would ever mention to her.
The storm showed no sign of stopping.