Some things cannot be seen. But when they move, the entire city forgets how to breathe.
The Night Report: Something Is Wrong
The night ends, but it leaves no echoes behind. On the military intelligence table, a new report sits under the harsh fluorescent light:
Location: A narrow alleyway.
Status: No bodies. No blood.
Instead, there are only black, scorched marks on the walls, dry ash on the pavement, and a lingering scent in the air that defies explanation.
"Sir..." an officer mutters, flipping through the tactical notes. "This isn't the work of the Child of Devil."
"He doesn't leave things this empty," another adds after a long pause.
The air in the room turns leaden. The absence of a body is somehow more terrifying than the presence of one.
The Name Returns (Only as Fear)
Inside the ARC research wing, the whispers begin like a spreading fever.
"Blood Cult..."
No one says the name loudly. The last time that name surfaced, an entire residential block had vanished in a single night.
"They don't hunt for sport," an analyst explains, his voice barely audible. "They clear the ground."
The General's jaw tightens. "But we aren't looking for them," he says slowly.
The silence that follows is a heavy admission of guilt. By focusing all their eyes on the boy, they had left the back door wide open.
Iren: Sensing the Void
Iren doesn't see them, but he feels the shift. The familiar 'heaviness' of the night is gone, replaced by a vacuum. This isn't the silence that follows a kill; it is the silence of a street that has been professionally sanitized.
Iren presses his palm against a wall marked with a black, oily stain. Deep inside his chest, something stirs—not with hunger, but with recognition. This isn't his work. And it certainly isn't the work of the Army.
ARC's Private Note
A file is pulled from a high-security drawer. It bears a crimson tag:
BLOOD CULT — STATUS: ACTIVE (UNCONFIRMED)
Beneath the header, a handwritten note reads:
"Let the child run. He draws the eyes."
Two shadows in the same street aren't a problem. The problem arises when neither shadow realizes the other is watching.
A Street Already Clean
Midnight. Iren walks down a familiar path, but the "pressure" of human presence is missing. No fear, no hidden heartbeats, no lingering traces of adrenaline. The street is hollow.
Iren stops. He realized that someone has finished the work before he even arrived.
Something That Isn't Soul
Suddenly, the black screen doesn't flicker. The word "Soul" doesn't pulse in his mind. Instead, he feels a coldness that seeps into his bones.
Someone was standing right here moments ago. And they purposefully took nothing.
Iren understands now. This is restraint. And in this city, restraint is far more terrifying than hunger. It means they aren't killing to survive; they are killing for a purpose.
The Mark
In the corner of the alley, he finds it. It isn't blood or ash. It is a dry, dark stain—an ancient symbol drawn with fresh intent. Iren doesn't touch it. Something deep within his instinct screams at him to stay away.
Across the Street
In the deepest pocket of darkness, someone is standing.
They are invisible to the eye, but Iren feels the weight of their gaze. For one second, time stops. Both shadows freeze.
There is no attack. No questions. Only a mutual understanding:
This is not a hunt. * This is a division of territory.
Then, the presence vanishes. Silently. As if the darkness itself had swallowed it whole.
Iren's Realization
Iren begins to walk again. His body is calm, but a new kind of alertness is born within him.
This isn't the Army with their loud boots and drones. This isn't the ARC with their files. These people operate in the spaces between the seconds.
And the most frightening part? They don't make mistakes.
Elsewhere: The Blood Cult
"Leave him be," a voice says in a windowless room.
There is a long pause before the reply comes: "For now."
Chapter End Hook
For the first time in this city, Iren realized he was no longer the only predator in the night.