The janitorial closet on the forty-second floor of Syndicate Tower smelled of industrial bleach and forgotten promises. Elias reached for the mop with his left hand, keeping his right tucked into the pocket of his faded navy jumpsuit. The motion was practiced, almost mechanical, like everything else he did during daylight hours.
"Sector four needs attention, Jensen," crackled the supervisor's voice through the outdated intercom. "An executive spilled his coffee again. Make it quick."
Elias didn't bother responding. Six months on the job had taught him that acknowledgment was optional, obedience mandatory. He wheeled his cart toward the elevator, eyes fixed on the scuffed linoleum floor. The reflective doors slid open, and he stepped inside, carefully positioning himself in the corner furthest from the camera.
The executive floors of Syndicate Tower were a different world from the utilitarian lower levels. Here, the air smelled of expensive cologne and quiet desperation. Marble floors gleamed under recessed lighting, and the walls were adorned with abstract art that cost more than Elias would earn in ten lifetimes. He kept his head down as executives in tailored suits passed by, their conversations dropping to whispers at the sight of his jumpsuit.
None of them looked at his face. The janitor was like furniture present but invisible.
Which was exactly how Elias preferred it.
He found the coffee spill outside Conference Room 4-B. The dark liquid had formed a puddle that resembled the blast radius of an explosion. Elias stared at it for a moment too long, his mind drifting to another stain one made of ash and blood, ten years ago.
"Are you going to clean that up, or just admire it?" A sharp voice cut through his thoughts.
Elias looked up to see a woman in a charcoal grey suit, her hair pulled back so tightly it seemed to stretch her features into a permanent expression of disdain. The silver pin on her lapel marked her as part of the Syndicate's legal division.
"Sorry, ma'am," he murmured, immediately dropping to his knees and working the mop across the marble.
She lingered, watching him with the detached curiosity of someone observing an insect. "You're new."
"Six months," Elias replied, not looking up.
"Hmm. You have that look."
His hand paused mid-swipe. "What look?"
"Sundering survivor." She said it casually, as if commenting on the weather. "The hollow eyes. The way you flinch at sudden movements. Classic case of PTSD."
Elias resumed mopping, his movements more deliberate now. "Lots of people survived The Sundering."
"Not from the epicenter." She tapped her heel impatiently. "Not from Sector 7."
The mop handle creaked under Elias's tightening grip. She was fishing, probing for a reaction. He'd encountered her type before, Syndicate employees who treated The Sundering like a morbid curiosity, a disaster to dissect over expensive drinks.
"I wouldn't know, ma'am. I was in Sector 12." The lie came easily. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to finish before your meeting starts."
She seemed disappointed by his non-reaction but moved on with a dismissive wave. Elias watched her go, memorizing her face. In his other life, he might need to know who she was.
The rest of his shift passed in the familiar rhythm of menial tasks. Emptying trash cans. Wiping down surfaces. Cleaning bathrooms. Listen. Watch. Remember. Such repetitive tasks.
By the time the sun began to set, casting long shadows through the floor-to-ceiling windows, Elias had collected three new pieces of information: a security code muttered carelessly by a guard changing shifts, the name of a Syndicate enforcer mentioned in hushed tones, and the location of a warehouse in the Lower Districts that had been marked for "special inventory."
He clocked out at exactly 7:00 PM, joining the stream of support staff exiting through the service entrance. The November air hit him like a physical blow, carrying the perpetual smell of smoke that had lingered over Ironhaven since The Sundering. Above, the city's skyscrapers pierced the smog-choked sky, their neon advertisements painting the clouds in garish colors.
*SYNDICATE INDUSTRIES: REBUILDING A STRONGER IRONHAVEN*
The slogan glowed from a massive billboard, accompanied by the stylized image of a phoenix rising from flames. Elias stared at it for a moment, feeling the familiar burn of rage in his chest. The Syndicate hadn't rebuilt anything. They'd simply claimed the ruins and erected their empire on the bones of the dead.
On his bones. On Sarah's bones. On little Mira's bones.
He pulled his collar higher against the chill and began the long walk home. His apartment was in the Ash District, twenty blocks from Syndicate Tower. Most employees took the elevated train, but Elias preferred to walk. It gave him time to transition, to shed the meek janitor and prepare for the night ahead.
The streets grew narrower and darker as he moved away from the city center. Here, the neon was sporadic, illuminating crumbling facades and desperate faces. Oblivion Dust dealers lurked in shadowed doorways, their eyes glowing an unnatural blue from prolonged exposure. A group of children played in the ruins of what had once been a school, their laughter a jarring counterpoint to the desolation around them.
Elias strode past a mural of tangled graffiti. Amid the riot of color, one mark seized his attention: a stark white handprint outlined by the words THE WRAITH WATCHES. He allowed himself a faint smile. Lately, the emblem had been cropping up everywhere, rippling through the Lower Districts like a whispered promise...
Or perhaps a warning. Whatever it foretold, its message was spreading.
His apartment building was a pre-Sundering structure that had somehow survived the blast. The elevator hadn't worked in years, so Elias climbed the six flights of stairs, his legs burning with familiar exertion. The pain was good. It reminded him he was still alive, still flesh and blood... at least for now.
The apartment was small and sparse. A mattress on the floor. A table with a single chair. A hot plate for cooking. The only personal touch was a burned photograph in a cracked frame: a man in a firefighter's uniform, a woman with kind eyes, and a little girl with her father's smile. Their faces were partially obscured by ash, as if they were already fading from existence.
Elias placed his keycard on the table and moved to the bathroom. The mirror above the sink was cracked, fracturing his reflection into jagged pieces. Appropriate, he thought. He barely recognized himself anymore. His once-vibrant eyes had dulled to the color of wet concrete. His dark hair was streaked with premature gray. And his skin...
He removed his right glove slowly, revealing what lay beneath. His hand was translucent, the bones and veins visible through flesh that had the consistency of smoke. As he watched, it seemed to flicker, becoming momentarily insubstantial before solidifying again. The effect was spreading up his wrist, creeping toward his elbow like a disease.
The price of power. The cost of vengeance.
From the cabinet beneath the sink, he retrieved a small metal case. Inside, nestled in foam, was a syringe filled with glowing blue-black liquid. Oblivion Dust, refined and stabilized stolen from the same people who had created it. He rolled up his sleeve, found a vein that wasn't yet transparent, and injected the substance with practiced precision.
The effect was immediate. Fire raced through his veins, and for a moment, his vision blurred with pain. Then came the cold, a deep, penetrating chill that settled in his bones. His translucent hand solidified, the ghostly effect receding back to his fingertips.
And then, as always, came the voice.
"Daddy? Why is it so dark?"
Elias closed his eyes, his fingers gripping the edge of the sink. "Not now, Mira. Not yet."
The voice faded, leaving only the sound of his ragged breathing. He wasn't sure anymore if it was a hallucination, a side effect of the Dust, or something else entirely. Sometimes, he thought it was his guilt given voice. Maybe it was a punishment. Other times, he dared to hope it was really her, somehow tethered to him through the Dust that had taken her life and transformed his.
Either way, he couldn't answer her yet. Not until he had fulfilled his promise.
Night had fully descended by the time Elias opened the hidden compartment in his closet floor. The firefighter's coat was where he'd left it, the once-bright red fabric now the color of dried blood. He ran his fingers over the charred edges, feeling the weight of memory in every fiber. Then he began to dress.
The thermal undersuit was first, black and close-fitting. Then the reinforced boots, the utility belt with its specialized tools. The coat went on last, settling on his shoulders like armor. He attached the modified gas mask to his face, feeling the familiar press of rubber against his skin.
The transformation was complete. Elias, or should I call him Elias Jensen, the invisible janitor, was gone.
In his place stood the Wraith, the shadow that haunted Ironhaven's nightmares.
He moved to the window and looked out at the city. Somewhere in the tangle of streets and towers, the Syndicate was moving its "special inventory." Somewhere, they were continuing the experiments that had led to The Sundering. Somewhere, they were creating more victims, more ghosts.
More like him.
The Wraith flexed his right hand, watching as it momentarily phased through the windowsill. The Dust was active in his system now, his powers at their peak. It was time to hunt.
He climbed onto the fire escape, the metal groaning beneath his weight. Below, the alley was empty, shrouded in darkness. Perfect. He took a deep breath, feeling the cold night air through the filters of his mask.
Then he stepped off the edge into emptiness and let the shadows swallow him whole.
The night had just begun.
***
Any Kind of Engagement is appreciated.