The alley twisted into nothing but mist, thick and choking. My right arm hung useless at my side, a dead weight reminding me I was marked. The fog pulsed around me, alive, judging each heartbeat.
Then movement—a figure stepped through the haze, faster than any human. Limbs too long, jerky, precise, shaped by the fog itself. Another hunter. Not my master. Worse. Unfinished. Hungry. Unpredictable.
Panic clawed at my chest. I couldn't fight the way I wanted. My left arm alone wouldn't save me.
I ran. Not blindly. I let the fog guide me, pushing it carefully—just enough to bend the mist around me. It shivered, reluctant, angry. The cost pressed at the edges of my mind, threatening more than my arm this time.
The hunter lunged. I dropped low, rolling behind debris. The fog followed, curling and snapping, tasting me like a predator savoring prey. I had no choice. I reached into the fog, using it the way my master had taught me—but slower, deliberate, measured. A ribbon of mist twisted toward the hunter's feet, tripping it into the rubble. Limbs jerked unnaturally as it tried to rise.
I didn't wait. I sprinted, half-blind, leaving the fog-thickened alley behind. Every step reminded me of my useless arm. Every inhale reminded me the fog knew me.
I ducked into a ruined building, panting, shaking. The hunter's shadow lingered outside, just beyond the mist's edge. I pressed my left hand to my chest, feeling the fog coil inside me. Survival wasn't skill anymore. It was bargaining with a force that didn't care if I lived. And I was losing.
I pressed my back against the crumbling wall, every muscle screaming as the fog curled around my chest. My left hand burned where it had guided the mist against the hunter, but the pain wasn't physical—it was the cost the fog demanded, a reminder it remembered me now.
I dared to look outside the edge of the ruined building. The shadow lingered, a jagged silhouette in the swirling gray. Its movements were precise, unnatural. Whoever—or whatever—it was, it had been shaped by the fog as much as I had.
I clenched my teeth and forced myself to move. One careful step forward, then another. The fog quivered at my command, reluctant but obedient. Each time I twisted it, I felt a piece of myself slip away, a memory or instinct I hadn't noticed leaving.
The street beyond was silent, save for the occasional drip of water from the broken rooftops. My breath was loud in my ears. I had to get out. But the hunter—or the fog itself—was patient. It didn't rush me. It wanted me to make a mistake.
Then I heard it: a faint, whispering sound that wasn't entirely human. The fog shifted, wrapping around the shadow like a cloak. Its white eyes caught mine through the haze. I couldn't tell if it was anger, curiosity, or hunger, but it was enough to make my stomach twist.
I tightened my grip on the air itself, bending the mist into a thin ribbon, barely enough to nudge the shadow's feet off balance. It stumbled—not fully, but enough for me to slip past, moving deeper into the alley network.
Every step was agony. Every command of the fog took a toll. I could feel the lingering effect on my left hand, spreading like cold fire into my chest. Somewhere behind me, the shadow hissed—soft, sharp, and impossibly fast. I didn't look back. Survival wasn't about fear; it was about movement, patience, and remembering the lessons of the masters.
The alley opened into a wide square, abandoned except for the fog, thickening here like a living thing. I knew I had to keep moving, but my body was warning me I had overreached. My left arm ached, my lungs burned, and yet the fog pulsed at my fingertips, demanding obedience.
I closed my eyes for a fraction of a second, listening. The fog whispered secrets: paths, movements, hidden dangers. It was teaching me. Or punishing me. Perhaps both.
I made a choice. I would use the fog once more, not just to escape, but to learn—to see how deep its influence ran.
Whatever the fog had taken from me, it had gained something in return—and it wasn't finished collecting.