A tall figure in an oversized charcoal hoodie stood by the edge of the crowded sidewalk, back hunched slightly, scarf wrapped tight over the lower half of his face. Baggy jeans hung over old sneakers, and a cap sat low on his brow, shadowing his eyes. At first glance, he blended in with everyone else—a young man in his twenties, dressed like any student or freelancer trying not to be noticed. Only after a few seconds did the details line up: the posture, the careful gait, the stillness in his eyes.
It was Kairo.
He pulled out his phone with a gloved hand and unlocked it. There, in the gallery, was a screenshot—low resolution and hastily saved—the only evidence left of the story that had caught his eye the day before.
It had been online for less than an hour.
Now, it was gone. Erased like it had never existed.
But not before he captured it.
The headline was simple: Donations Under Doubt? Quiet Allegations of Laundering through Local Charity. The article had named a building used as a front to turn illicit money into clean Ludans. The image attached to the story showed a small, two-storey building that looked like an old administrative house. A board outside read in block letters: Donation for Youth. Below that, in a smaller font, was the name of the organization: DonationProject.
No comments. No shares. No reposts.
Kairo scanned the area again.
The building sat at the far end of a quiet lane. No security. No cameras that he could see. No obvious signs of tension. It looked ordinary—maybe too ordinary.
He crossed the street and leaned against a closed street stall under a shade, phone in hand, pretending to scroll.
Over the next half hour, he watched silently as people entered and exited the building. Most were dressed in simple office attire or volunteer vests—familiar expressions, no tension. A few carried files or packages. Nothing screamed criminal. But something about the flow didn't feel right. The pace. The silence.
"Would anyone actually believe this is legit?" Kairo muttered behind his scarf. He kept observing. "If this place was ever honest, it sure doesn't look like it anymore."
He focused harder, letting his sight shift—watching for the emotional threads, the aura patterns.
Most people had threads barely connected to the building or scattered nearby. Dull colors, familiar emotions—routine, fatigue, guilt, boredom. Nothing that stood out.
But then—
A ripple in the air.
Kairo's eyes narrowed.
A man turned the corner up the lane, walking straight toward the building's front entrance.
At a glance, he looked like a technician—grey vest, slightly worn cargo pants, gloves clipped to his side. Slim frame. Unremarkable face. He moved casually, like someone coming to check the wiring or replace the water filter.
But his aura—
It wasn't just different. It was impossible to ignore.
Purple and gold pulsed around his body, layered and shifting like curtains in a breeze. The tones moved too smoothly to be ordinary. Controlled. Balanced. Almost calculated.
And beneath it, faint as smoke, a barely-there flicker of black.
Kairo straightened slightly.
Black was rare. Not unheard of—but deeply uncommon. And when it appeared, it didn't come without meaning.
The aura wasn't just for show.
Kairo blinked slowly, activating his focus. Threads burst into view—an entire lattice of connections from the man's body stretching out in all directions. A dense cluster linked him to objects and people inside the building.
But that was only a part of it.
Dozens more threads trailed outward—past the block, around corners, into buildings Kairo couldn't see. And further still—threadlines stretched across the air like drawn wires, vanishing into the distant noise and structure of Helsis.
This man wasn't a passerby.
He wasn't a worker.
He was central.
A node. A living web of influence walking straight into the mouth of the operation.
Kairo stayed perfectly still.
His breath shallow. Eyes fixed.
He didn't know who this man was.
But this… this was something worth following.