The yellow rays of dawn tiptoed across the Rému's rooftops, painting the city in hues of radiant gold. For a few fleeting moments, as the embers of sleep cooled, Wyva lay still, a silent witness to a waking world.
From his studio, he could hear the city beginning its full sprint. It was a practiced symphony: the rhythmic call of merchants, the distant chime of Temple bells, and the hum of the overarching bridges that connected the coastal walls.
To Wyva, Rému's architecture proved a fingerprint and this early morning routine its soul.
It was all he knew, it was home.
He rolled off his mattress with a groan, his long Alven limbs unravelling as he padded into the kitchenette. He stretched, feeling the last remnants of rest leave his system, and poured a cup of brew.
The scent of jasmine filled the air, a gift of calm before the inevitable storm that was his day. It was followed quickly by the waft of fresh bread drifting through his open window. This was the true meaning of peace. A bombardment of grace, and in response Wyva offered a quick, silent prayer to Astra. Emphasising his gratefulness for the privilege of smelling it.
He stepped onto his balcony, leaning against the railing to watch the locals stir. Night-shift scholars were trudging home, eyes bleary from ancient texts; beggars were staking out their corners with practiced humility. It was sophisticated, simple, and utterly tranquil.
A place where nothing could ever go wrong, Wyva thought, taking a sip of his tea.
That was until he looked toward the riverbank.
Not far from his home, a group of children were playing. Their toy of choice, was a Shahari teen who seemed fresh from the trials.
Wyva's face twisted, he had done the trial three years ago. Even though they were travelling through Shink-Ra territory, dying during the event seemed impossible.
The kids were using the lifeless cadaver as a makeshift action figure, posing its limbs and laughing.
Wyva's eyes rolled so hard it actually hurt.
I could just stay here, he reasoned. I could wait for the report to reach the Shiear. Let her ruin someone else's morning with the paperwork.
He took another sip of jasmine, closing his eyes and trying to manifest a day that didn't involve corpse-retrieval.
But he knew his boss. If the Shiear found out he'd sat here drinking tea while children played hopscotch over a dead Imperial soldier, she wouldn't just ruin his day—she'd ruin his career.
With a sigh of pure, unadulterated defeat, Wyva reached for the tag at the back of his neck. He pulled the dark fabric up over his face, the balaclava snapping into place.
His tea hand vanished, in it's place a trench knife.
As a Hand, he wasn't expected to use the stairs.
Wyva, brought himself into a squat then, launched himself from the balcony, his body a streak of white against the morning gold. He hit the riverbank in absolute silence, landing right next to the children. They were so occupied, using the body as a unit of measurement for a long-jump contest, that they didn't even notice the Hand in their midst.
"Gyé," Wyva said, a sharp, curt command.
The laughter died instantly. The children scrambled away from the body, snapping into a messy line with their hands behind their backs. Their world shifted from wonder to dread in a heartbeat.
Wyva let the silence hang. To most, the Hands were a force of efficient protection. To those caught doing wrong, they were the blade of a guillotine. He took a single, deliberate step forward, relishing the way their feet shuffled in the sand.
"Where..." he asked, his voice muffled and distorted by the mask, "did you find that?"
One child, an Alven boy at the end of the line, began to sink into the brown sand. The weakest link.
Wyva erupted, and blurred across the sand, stopping so abruptly that the resulting shockwave of wind and grit knocked the boy flat onto his backside.
"When?" Wyva demanded, looming.
"An hour ago!"
"By the docks!"
The answers came in a panicked rush. Wyva nodded, his masked head tilting as he surveyed the area. No other Hands were in sight. No witnesses.
"It's a good thing I didn't see any of you here," Wyva remarked.
The hint wasn't subtle. The children vanished, their getaway quick and careful as they tried, and hilariously failed, not to leave tracks in the sand.
Wyva stood alone with the body, the smell of the river competing with the iron tang of blood. He shook his head, the mask hiding his weary expression.
He knelt down and turned the left palm upright. His eyes squinted at that. The palms were still very much warm.
This kid was not dead at all.
Wyva removed the glove on his right palm and placed it against the other's chest.
With closed eyes he focused his energy into causing a shock strong enough to jolt the heart but weak enough that he didn't actually die in the process.
This was met by an almost immediate regret as before the lightning magic had fully manifested. The boy sprung up into a seated position.
Wyva retreated to a safe distance before he was grabbed.
"They're all dead. There's a traitor. They're already here."
The body just as quickly went back to sleep.
Wyva sighed to himself.
"I love this city, but I really, really hate this job."