The water was black.
Not reflective—hungry.
It stretched beneath the slum docks like a void cut into the city, thick with chemical runoff, oil slicks, and the half-dissolved remains of things no one ever filed reports for. Pipes bled into it constantly. Warm. Toxic. Alive in the worst way.
Netoshka stood at the edge of the platform, coat fluttering in the updraft from the turbines beneath the docks. The air smelled of rust, salt, and rot. Her HUD highlighted movement below—large shapes circling lazily, drawn by vibration.
Feeding stock.
The 4th gang boss had chosen this place because he thought it was poetic.
She thought so too.
The man knelt behind her, zip-tied, gag torn from his mouth only moments ago. He was sobbing now. Not screaming. Sobbing. The kind that comes when someone understands—fully—that there is no negotiation left in the universe.
"You said you didn't know," Netoshka said calmly, not turning around.
Her voice was flat. Empty. Wrong.
The man shook his head violently.
"I—I told you everything—everything I swear—"
"You lied twice," she replied.
"Third lies mean intent."
She turned.
Her eyes were wrong now. Not glowing. Not distorted.
Just hollow.
She crouched in front of him, balanced easily on the balls of her feet, like a predator settling before the final movement.
"Let's make this efficient," she said.
"You point. You talk. Or be fed to them."
"I TALK—I'LL TALK—" he choked out, words slurring together.
"The docks—lower west—subsector Nine—he—he runs shark routes—body disposal—he likes to—"
Netoshka grabbed his face.
Not violently. Just enough to stop his mouth.
Her fingers trembled for half a second.
Not hesitation.
Containment.
"Names," she said.
"…Rooker."
The name registered immediately. Red flags cascaded across her vision. Smuggler. Human trafficking. Organ harvest. Recreational executions for betting rings.
Netoshka stood.
She dragged him to the edge.
The water below shifted, sensing weight.
Rooker's man began screaming then—high, animal, stripped of language.
"No no no no PLEASE—"
She lifted him effortlessly.
Held him over the edge.
Paused.
"You watched two children die," she said softly.
"You placed bets on whether Zev would break before they did."
She released him.
The scream cut off halfway down.
The water erupted—not splashing, but collapsing inward, like something massive had opened its mouth beneath the surface. There was no thrashing. No blood spray.
Just a wet, final sound.
Then ripples.
Netoshka didn't look away.
She waited until the water went still again.
Then she turned and walked.
The lower dock corridors were silent now.
Not abandoned—emptied.
People hid behind sealed doors. Cameras powered down. Gang lookouts had vanished entirely. Word had moved faster than bullets ever could.
Something was hunting.
Netoshka moved through the corridor like a glitch in reality—appearing between shadows, skipping frames, never lingering long enough to be recorded properly. Her coat was darker now. Wet at the hem.
She followed the route the man had given her.
Subsector Nine.
The smell changed first.
Blood. Oil. Salt. Fear.
The warehouse squatted at the edge of the docks like a tumor—reinforced steel, floodlights still on, power humming. Two guards at the entrance. Nervous. Armed.
Netoshka didn't slow.
The first guard turned—
—and his head hit the wall behind him before the sound reached his ears.
The second raised his rifle—
—and Netoshka passed through him, her shoulder phasing just long enough to rupture organs without tearing skin.
Both bodies slid to the ground seconds later.
Inside, the warehouse was lit in red.
Cages lined the walls. Empty now. Recently emptied.
Hooks hung from the ceiling.
A betting terminal blinked softly in the corner, still active.
And at the center—
Rooker.
He was heavier than the others. Augmented. Thick cybernetics layered over muscle. He held a cleaver in one hand and a pistol in the other, both shaking.
"You," he said, recognition dawning. "
You're the—"
Netoshka crossed the room.
No sprint.
No warning.
Just there.
She grabbed his cleaver hand and folded it backward until bone pierced skin. He screamed. She twisted again. The cleaver clattered to the floor.
"You're all gonna be my Victims," she said.
Her voice was colder now. Sharper.
Rask fired blindly.
The bullets passed through afterimages.
She kicked his knee sideways.
It bent wrong.
He collapsed, howling.
She dragged him toward the rear gate—the one that opened directly over the water.
"No—WAIT—WAIT—PLEASE—"
She slammed him against the railing.
Below them, the water churned faintly.
"They're hungry tonight," Netoshka said.
"You've trained them well."
"I DIDN'T TOUCH THE KIDS—IT WAS BUSINESS—"
She leaned in close.
"So was this."
She hoisted him over the railing.
This time, she didn't let go immediately.
She held him there, suspended, the water breathing beneath them.
"You don't get mercy," she said quietly.
"You get Death, just like the rest of em."
Then she dropped him.
The water exploded.
This time, there was screaming.
It lasted longer.
Netoshka turned away before it finished.
By the time she reached the upper slums again, the night was dead quiet.
No sirens.
No footsteps.
No witnesses.
She checked her internal count.
Four gone.
One left.
Her comms flickered—Spectr checking in. Status request. ETA updates.
She ignored it.
Her gaze lifted toward the city's inner spine—the industrial towers rising like teeth against the sky.
That's where the fourth would be.
She stepped into the shadows.
And vanished.