Duskhaven was the kind of place that swallowed men whole, then spat out what was left—if anything was left at all.
The rain had been falling for hours. It slicked the cracked pavement, blurred the rusted neon signs overhead, and turned the city's filth into something that almost shimmered under the streetlights. But Asher didn't mind the rain. It drowned footsteps. It cloaked gunshots. It cleaned the blood.
He stood in the mouth of an alleyway, half-swallowed by shadow, one hand shoved into his coat pocket. The other hand hung by his side, fingers twitching—like they already knew justice was coming.
Across from him, a man trembled on his knees, nose broken, mouth full of copper. His name was Calder Black, and he had a list of crimes longer than the alley they stood in. Drugs laced with soulrot. Trafficking people like they were inventory. Torture. Murder.
And worst of all: he thought he could run from it.
Asher's eyes glowed faintly—a burnished silver ring around irises that once used to be warm. He didn't raise his voice when he spoke.
"You sold a twelve-year-old girl for five thousand credits. She was found with her organs harvested and her throat sewn shut."
Calder spat blood, coughing. "You don't get to play god—"
Asher stepped forward once, slow and measured. The air grew heavier, the kind of weight that pressed down on your chest and made your heartbeat louder than your thoughts. He didn't flinch as lightning cracked the sky behind him.
"I don't play god," he said. "I punish monsters."
A pulse of darkness rippled out from his feet—silent and violent. For a moment, Calder's eyes widened as if he could see something behind Asher, something ancient and vast. Then—
Crack.
Frost bloomed across Calder's skin like flowers in reverse. Ice erupted from within, not outside—a gift tailored for him. A perfect countermeasure to the burning torment he'd inflicted on others. His body froze mid-breath, mid-beg, mid-regret.
Seconds later, only a statue remained. Hollow. Cold. Forgotten.
Asher exhaled and turned away before the body could collapse into glittering shards behind him.
But the power didn't fade.
His chest ached—no, burned. A low toll echoed through his bones. His punishment was complete.
Now came the price.
The Flaw whispered in his head, relentless as always: Balance. Do good, or be consumed.
A small flicker of memory flashed—soft laughter, bright eyes, blood on a familiar face. The reminder that even justice came at a cost. His hand clenched slightly, and he looked toward the far end of the alley.
Unseen behind a broken fire escape, a pair of eyes watched him.
Zara.
He didn't call out to her. He never did. But he knew she was there. She always was.
For now, it was enough.
Asher stepped out of the alley, the rain swallowing his silhouette like the city always did.
Justice had been served. But redemption was still a long way off.