Midnight draped Zenith in metallic blue, glass towers glinting like fangs. Slate Tower—an unfinished high-rise forty stories tall—loomed above the city's freight district, its concrete spine wrapped in skeletal scaffolding. Wind keened through exposed beams, and each gust carried the clatter of loose rebar like distant laughter.
Alaric ascended the service elevator shaft, boots ghosting up a lattice of maintenance rungs. The warm lockbox hung across his back, snug beneath his jacket; his newly upgraded limbs felt spring-loaded, every motion precise. Agility at D-rank made the climb feel weightless, but nervous energy still prickled along his skin. The note promised answers—or a blade between ribs.
He reached the rooftop, muscle memory slipping him over the parapet without a sound. Clouds shredded around a swollen moon, flooding the bare concrete pad in silver. At its center stood the Shroud, cloak rippling, porcelain mask glowing pale. A single portable lantern cast a low circle of orange at her feet, illuminating two bodies sprawled beside her—Syndicate enforcers, throats neatly opened. Their lifeless eyes gazed skyward, reflecting the moon like broken glass.
Alaric drew closer, knife at a neutral angle. "Final ambush is yours, then?"
Her voice rolled through the modulator, soft yet edged. "Predator's Instinct. Three hunts. I claimed the last to see if you'd survive."
As if summoned, the system chimed in Alaric's mind:
[Quest Complete: Predator's Instinct]Reward: +1 Stat Point
He didn't let the rush of victory touch his face. "You bled Syndicate hounds just to test me?"
"They bleed easily." She nudged a corpse with her boot. "What matters is what bleeds inside that box."
Alaric felt the weight of Seraphim's secret press between his shoulder blades. "You know what's in it?"
"Enough to kill for it. Enough to keep you alive—for now." She pulled her own lockbox from beneath her cloak: identical, save for a faint blue glyph etched into its lid. "Three keys exist. Your mother hid them decades ago. You carry one. I carry another."
"And the third?"
"Not here." Moonlight caught in her mask's hollow eye-sockets. "If we pool ours, the Syndicate loses a hand on the board, but the game doesn't end. The Council still holds factories, soldiers, politicians. What do you want, Alaric Vale? Revenge? Throne?"
He thought of Lia asleep in their cramped room, dreaming fierce dreams of him. "I want safety," he said. "And choices no one can rip away."
The Shroud cocked her head. "Then learn the shape of power. Trade keys. Join me."
"Why me?" he asked. "You could kill me and take it."
"Possession is nothing without authentication. The lock reads Vale blood." A gloved fingertip drifted over his collarbone—barely a touch, yet deadly certainty flowed from that closeness. "Kill you, and I might lose the only living passcode."
Wind howled between them. Alaric weighed possibility: alliance with an assassin who stalked him for sport. Trust was a brittle blade—but refusing her might sharpen it against his throat.
He slid the lockbox from his pack, holding it in moonlight. "Show me your face."
A long silence. Then the Shroud reached up, fingers finding hidden clasps. Porcelain lifted, revealing a woman perhaps mid-twenties, skin pale as snowfall, eyes the color of storm clouds. A thin scar traced her jawline—silent proof of earlier hunts. She studied him without flinching.
"Call me Selene," she said softly. "My face is my vow."
Alaric's grip eased. He placed his lockbox on the concrete; she mirrored him. Kneeling across from one another, they exchanged cases silently, palms brushing. The moment the warm box left his hands, a chill slid through his gut—as though fate rewrote itself.
Gunfire cracked from the stairwell door.
Selene's mask snapped back on; Alaric rolled behind an air-handler as bullets chewed concrete. Four Syndicate elites burst onto the roof, armored coats fluttering. Their leader—a bald sharpshooter with a smart-rifle—barked orders.
Alaric's new Agility flared—time stretched thin. He sprinted low, knife flashing. A grenadier pivoted too slow; Alaric buried steel under the rib cage, then yanked free as blood misted. He seized the dying man's sub-gun, rolled, and stitched a burst at a second attacker rushing Selene. The rounds shattered a visor; the man spun away.
Selene danced among bullets—a blur of black and white. Her short sword sang, severing an arm at the elbow, then a throat. She flowed like water, mask crimson-speckled.
The sharpshooter found range, scope glinting. Alaric slid behind a ventilation duct an instant before a high-velocity round punched through steel where his heart had been. Metal screamed. He tossed the empty sub-gun as a decoy left; bullet chased the scrap, giving him two heartbeats. He bolted right, closing the angle, feeling D-rank agility turn corners into straight lines.
Selene hurled a throwing spike; the sharpshooter ducked—but that fraction gave Alaric arrival. He slammed into the rifle barrel, forcing it skyward. Muzzle flash lit the night. The sharpshooter drew a ceramic dagger; they grappled, boots skidding near the ledge. Alaric head-butted the man's cheekplate, heard bone crack. Knife punched toward Alaric's gut—he twisted, let the blade graze loin muscle, then locked the wrist and flipped momentum. The sharpshooter toppled over the parapet, scream swallowed by wind and forty stories of empty air.
Silence reigned. Rain began, soft at first, then harder, washing blood trails into feathery streams.
Selene wiped her blade clean on a corpse's coat. "You fight like someone who's learning his own body. That will change."
Alaric's wound seeped, but Vitality tugged flesh together. "We still have two keys and the Council's wrath."
"And allies," Selene said, eyes glittering behind mask slits. "I can open doors Tavros only dreams of. You'll need them when your sister's heritage surfaces."
He stiffened. "Leave Lia out of this."
"Your mother built Seraphim around family DNA. Lia is… important." Selene's tone softened—not threat, but acknowledgement. "Protect her, or everything ends."
Alaric bound his flank with gauze stripped from a dead vest. [Skill Progress: Stealth 15.9%] floated across vision, plus subtle warmth—stat point banked from the quest. He reserved it—saving strength for when the ceiling rose again.
He took Selene's lockbox, heavy with unspoken risk. "Where to next?"
"The Vault of Mirrors," she answered. "A data nexus under the Grand Spire. Your mother's second key may sleep there."
Lightning forked across Zenith's skies, painting the city chrome-bright for an instant. Alaric saw the path ahead: data vaults, corporate palaces, betrayals waiting in gold-trimmed corridors. And beside him, a predator wrapped in silk and porcelain.
He offered his knife hand. "Partners?"
She clasped it, grip firm. "Until the hunt is done."
Far below, the sirens began again—answers arriving too late. Alaric and Selene stepped into the stairwell, two shadows spiraling downward with stolen keys and converging fates.
The game had changed. And Zenith, restless beast, roared its approval.