Netoshka didn't speak as she entered the slums.
She didn't need to.
The place already knew something was wrong.
This sector sat beneath the city's spine—stacked concrete blocks crushed together by neglect, power lines sagging like veins ready to burst. Neon signs flickered erratically, gang symbols sprayed over propaganda slogans, the air thick with rot, oil, and fear. The people here had learned to look away first and ask questions later.
Tonight, even the gangs were nervous.
Netoshka moved through the alleys without sound, her presence desynced from the world by a fraction of a second. Cameras skipped frames. Motion sensors hiccupped. Anyone looking directly at her felt a crawling unease they couldn't explain.
She was hunting.
Her target was Havel—one of the Five. A logistics tyrant who controlled transport routes and body disposal across the western slums. He didn't run drugs or weapons directly. He moved people. Unregistered. Unwanted. Forgotten.
Children went missing on his routes.
Netoshka followed the trail of fear until it condensed into a single building: an unfinished corporate tower abandoned halfway through construction, now wrapped in scaffolding and guarded by men pretending to be important.
She perched above them on a cracked skybridge, rain soaking her coat. Below, Havel's men smoked, laughed, checked weapons they didn't deserve.
Netoshka inhaled.
Then she stepped forward.
Reality glitched.
One guard collapsed without knowing why. Another fired—his round passing through an afterimage as his throat opened a heartbeat later. A third screamed before the sound cut off abruptly.
Netoshka landed among them like gravity remembered her.
Havel ran.
He was already screaming into his comm, promising bribes, calling in favors, begging the city to notice him.
Netoshka let him run.
She followed at a walking pace.
He burst onto the rooftop helipad, skidding on wet concrete, breath ragged. The skyline loomed behind him—cold towers watching without caring.
He turned.
She was there.
"No—no, wait—!" he sobbed.
"I didn't touch them—those orders came from—"
Netoshka struck him once.
He went down hard.
She produced an industrial polymer bodybag from her pack—standard issue for cleanup crews. Efficient. Airtight.
Havel realized what it was too late.
She shoved him inside as he thrashed, zip-seal screaming shut over his muffled cries. The bag writhed violently.
Netoshka dragged him to the edge of the roof.
Wind howled.
Below, traffic crawled. Lives passed on, unaware.
She found a steel maintenance spike bolted into the concrete—meant to anchor tether lines during construction.
She lined it up.
Then drove it down.
The spike punched clean through the bag.
The thrashing stopped.
Netoshka didn't look away.
She hoisted the impaled body upright, securing it so it hung over the edge—visible from the streets below, swaying slightly in the rain.
A message.
She leaned in close, her voice low and steady despite the storm inside her chest.
"Those kids..," she whispered.
"i'm sorry Zev, i will Avenge them in your place."
She straightened.
The numbers screamed in her vision. Her hands trembled—not with doubt, but with something colder.
She vanished.
Minutes later, the city's feeds would glitch.
By morning, everyone in the slums would know:
One of the Five was dead.
And someone was coming for the rest.