The hansom cab rattled furiously, its wheels clattering a desperate rhythm over the cobblestones as it hurtled north. Noir pressed himself against the worn leather seat, peering through the small rear window, his breath a ragged whisper in the enclosed space. The initial rush of adrenaline from his daring escape was beginning to ebb, replaced by a tense anticipation. He knew Volkova wouldn't be easily outmaneuvered, not with the powers he possessed. The city, bathed in the still-pale light of dawn, seemed to stretch endlessly behind them, its gothic spires and intricate facades blurring into a forbidding silhouette. The rising sun, though unseen from within the shadowed cab, began to paint the highest reaches of the ancient cathedral towers with a faint, bruised gold, a fleeting beauty amidst his desperate flight.
He spotted them then. A dark speck against the waking street, rapidly growing larger. Two figures on horseback, their outlines unmistakably police. One was undoubtedly Volkova, his silhouette precise and determined even at this distance, an unyielding specter in the dim morning light. The other, likely the constable he'd left behind, or perhaps another officer Volkova had somehow summoned with unsettling speed, their horses galloping with powerful, rhythmic thuds that vibrated through the very ground. They closed the gap with alarming swiftness, their dark cloaks billowing behind them like predatory wings, their forms stark against the brightening sky, embodying the relentless pursuit.
"Faster!" Noir urged the driver, his voice tight, tinged with an urgency that belied his carefully constructed composure. "They're gaining!"
The driver grunted, a rough, practical man unconcerned with the nuances of a gentleman's flight, and lashed the horse. The animal responded with a renewed burst of effort, but the hansom cab, though swift for a city conveyance, was ultimately no match for police steeds built for pursuit. The gap continued to narrow, the thudding of hooves growing louder, a relentless drumbeat against the asphalt, pounding not just on the road, but against Noir's very ribs. Noir's eyes darted wildly, scanning the street ahead, searching for an alternative, a loophole, anything to break the relentless pursuit. The road here was wider, less winding than the cramped alleyways of the older district, flanked by imposing, if somewhat drab, stone buildings that offered little immediate cover. Yet, in the distance, he could discern the faint, jagged outlines of more intricate, older structures, hinting at hidden routes and unseen passages within the city's ancient heart, a whispered promise of complexity.
And then he saw it. Ahead, a heavily laden delivery carriage, a large, enclosed vehicle, lumbered slowly in the same direction, weighed down by what looked like crates of goods for the markets outside the city gates. Its pace was agonizingly slow, but its sheer bulk offered a potential screen, a moving wall of anonymity. More importantly, another hansom cab, identical to his own, was passing it on the opposite side of the road, moving leisurely towards the city center, its driver oblivious to the drama unfolding behind him. This was the critical piece, the element of calculated risk and bold misdirection.
A wild, almost reckless plan sparked in Noir's mind, born of desperation and the exhilarating, heightened 'awareness' from the tea that hummed beneath his skin. The 'weird grin' that had touched his lips in the nightmare returned, a strange, almost manic mix of exhilaration and grim determination. He couldn't help it; the unexpected thrill of the chase, the sheer audacity of the opportunity to outwit Volkova, was an intoxicating rush. This wasn't just survival; it was a defiant dance, a high-stakes game of cat and mouse against a formidable, supernatural opponent. Every thud of the police horses, every creak of his own carriage, was a note in this desperate, exhilarating symphony.
"Stop here!" Noir suddenly shouted, his voice cracking with urgency as he pushed a wad of crisp coins into the driver's bewildered hand, far more than any reasonable fare. "Now! Let me out!"
The driver, startled but seeing the glint of coin, instinctively pulled the reins, the hansom cab squealing to a halt with a jolt that threw Noir slightly forward. Before it had even fully stopped, before the driver could utter a word of protest, Noir launched himself from the open door. He landed lightly on the rough cobblestones, ignoring the sharp sting against his bare feet, and immediately spun around. He sprinted not away from the police, but towards the bulky delivery carriage, which was still moving, albeit slowly, its heavy wheels grinding against the stones. The thundering hooves of Volkova's pursuit were alarmingly close now, the air vibrating with their approach. He could almost feel Volkova's eyes, even if he couldn't see them yet, scrutinizing his every move, anticipating his every desperate twitch.
He reached the back of the delivery carriage just as the police came into full view, Volkova's grim face already visible, etched with relentless purpose, his gaze sweeping the street with an unnerving intensity. Without a moment's hesitation, Noir performed a desperate feat of athleticism born of raw instinct. He grabbed the rough wooden edge of the carriage, pulled himself upward with a powerful leap, his hands finding purchase on the cold, damp wood, the rough grain digging into his palms. He scrambled over the side, his body moving like a shadow, then dropped silently onto the narrow, shadowy space behind the rear axle, completely out of sight from anyone riding directly behind. He was a silent, clinging phantom, a hidden piece of the carriage itself, lost in its own moving shadow, obscured by the bulk of the goods it carried. The delivery carriage rumbled onward, its journey unaffected, his desperate gambit perfectly concealed by its vast mass and the frantic pace of the chase.
Noir held his breath, pressed against the rough underside of the delivery carriage, the relentless vibrations rattling his teeth, making his bones ache. He could hear the police horses skidding slightly as they reacted to the sudden halt of Noir's original hansom cab, their riders cursing, their frustration palpable even through the sounds of the street. They thundered past, their momentum carrying them forward. Noir risked a quick, furtive peek. Volkova and the constable were still in full pursuit, their eyes fixed on the rear of the lumbering delivery van, their faces a mask of grim determination. They clearly presumed Noir must have transferred there, or somehow used it for cover further down the road. The street was wide here, with fewer immediate alleyways, giving them few options for misdirection or sudden turns. Volkova let out a terse command, urging his mount forward, his attention now entirely fixed on the heavy carriage ahead, utterly convinced he was still on the right track.
Noir pressed himself closer to the carriage's underbelly, a triumphant surge blossoming in his chest. He had done it. He had fooled them. The cold metal and rough wood beneath him, the constant vibrations, the smell of dust and horse, all became a strange, exhilarating cocoon. He was a phantom, an unseen passenger, riding directly beneath their very noses, while they chased a ghost down the wide, open street. The raw joy of the deception, the fleeting taste of victory against such a formidable foe, was intoxicating. For a brief, glorious moment, Noir felt utterly free, truly invisible, a master of his own fate.