The boy learned early that noise got people killed.
At seven years old, Desto Sinfall crouched behind a burned-out sedan with his knees pulled tight to his chest, counting breaths the way his cousin had taught him—slow in, slower out—while gunfire cracked through the street ahead. Each shot echoed between the buildings, sharp and final. The car door beside him shuddered as a round punched through metal. Paint flakes drifted down like ash.
He didn't cry.
His skin was light brown, scraped raw at the knuckles. His hair was cut short and uneven, done in a hurry by someone who didn't know what a fade was yet. Even then, his eyes were wrong—one already an unsettling dull red, the other a washed gray that reflected firelight without blinking. People would notice later. At seven, no one was looking at him. Everyone was too busy trying not to die.
"Stay," his cousin whispered, shoving him down just before sprinting back into the street.
Desto stayed.
That was the first lesson that stuck.
The second came when the shooting stopped and the sirens never did.
⸻
Years later, the city learned how to hide its scars.
Concrete was patched. Windows replaced. Neon signs flickered over places where blood had soaked too deep to ever really wash out. But the Lawless District still breathed the same way—tight, shallow, always waiting for the next reason to panic.
Desto moved through it like he belonged there.
He was sixteen now. Six feet tall already, lean muscle stretched tight beneath a street-tactical mercenary fit—dark reinforced jacket, slim cargo pants, gloves worn thin at the fingertips. Blonde two-strand twists fell just past his eyes, taper fade clean and sharp. A customized Glock rested against his ribs. A combat knife sat balanced perfectly at his lower back.
The red eye watched corners.
The gray one tracked reflections.
People stepped aside without knowing why.
Two paces behind him walked Tristo Virtuoso.
Tristo was younger by two years, about five-ten, light brown skin, black and blue two-strand twists framing his face. His taper fade was precise, almost surgical. His eyes were fully black—no visible white, no visible pupil—empty in a way that made people uncomfortable if they stared too long.
He moved like someone waiting for a cue only he could hear.
"You hear that?" Tristo asked.
Desto slowed.
The street was quiet. No engines. No arguing. No music bleeding from cracked windows. Even the neon buzz felt uneven.
"Yeah," Desto said. "That."
They weren't mercenaries yet. Not officially. Mercenary school came later—buzz cuts, serial numbers, contracts. Right now they were runners. Watchers. Paid to deliver messages, scout locations, disappear when things got heavy.
This job paid cash.
A man waited near a closed bodega, tall and thin, jacket too clean for this district. His hands shook when they weren't stuffed into his pockets.
"You're late," the man said.
"We're early," Tristo replied with a faint smile. "You're just standing in the wrong minute."
The man frowned. "You Desto Sinfall?"
Desto nodded once.
"And you're…?"
"Not important," Tristo said. "What's the job?"
The man swallowed. "There's a building. Six floors. Old residential. People go in and don't come out."
"That's normal," Desto said.
"This is different," the man insisted. "No bodies. No screams. They just stop being mentioned. Like everyone forgets they existed."
Desto felt a subtle pressure behind his eyes—not fear. Recognition.
"Where?" he asked.
The man pointed two blocks north.
They didn't ask for more.
⸻
The building leaned crooked between newer structures, windows dark, entrance door hanging open like a mouth that forgot how to close. The air inside smelled wrong—not rot, not mold.
Absence.
Desto stepped in first, Glock already raised.
The hallway was narrow. Wallpaper peeled in long strips. Family photos lined the walls—birthdays, weddings, smiles frozen mid-moment.
Tristo's footsteps didn't echo.
"You feel that?" Tristo murmured.
Desto nodded. "Like we're early again."
They reached the stairwell.
Something shifted above them.
Not footsteps.
Weight.
Desto raised the Glock.
"Hello?" Tristo called lightly.
The lights flickered.
At the top of the stairs, for a fraction of a second, Desto thought he saw someone standing there. A woman. Hair hanging forward. Face hidden.
Then the lights went out.
Desto fired.
The gunshot tore through the stairwell. The echo died too fast.
The lights snapped back on.
The stairs were empty.
But one of the photos on the wall had changed.
Where a man once stood smiling between two children, there was now empty space—an arm around nothing. A gap reality hadn't noticed yet.
Tristo stared at it, fascinated.
"Someone already forgot," he said.
Desto lowered the gun slowly.
This wasn't just a job.
This was the beginning of something that didn't care whether they were ready.
Outside, the city kept breathing.
Inside the building, something waited.