The figure vanished, folding back into the dark as if the night itself had swallowed him whole. One blink and he was gone, leaving only the whisper of his retreating steps echoing faintly before silence reclaimed the alley.
Cain stood motionless for a long breath, letting the cold creep into his bones. The air was dense here, pressed down by damp and shadows. He tasted iron faintly on his tongue—the city's blood, seeping through its cracked veins.
Susan shifted first, restless as always. "You're just going to let him walk away?" Her voice was sharp, bristling with the heat of someone who hated unanswered questions.
Cain didn't look at her. His gaze remained fixed on the place where the phantom had stood, eyes narrowing slightly, as though he could still trace the ghost of that presence.
"He wanted us to follow," Cain said at last. "That path leads to a grave. Might be ours. Might be his. Not tonight."
Hunter's low voice rolled out like a stone down a well. "So what now?"
