Chapter 14: The Shadow of the Hangman.. The White Silence
[I. The Vanishing] Three weeks had passed since the birth of the Family. Azmareel was flourishing under Alexander's iron-fisted grace. The harbor operated with unprecedented efficiency, and petty street crimes had evaporated; the small-time thieves feared the "Shadow of the Raven" far more than they ever feared the police. The newspapers, under Elena's masterful hand, painted Alexander as a mysterious visionary rebuilding the city's broken heart.
But in the dark corners, something was rotting.
In his subterranean office near the Aurelius Vaults, Alexander was reviewing new smuggling routes when Silas entered. He didn't knock. The giant's face was an ashen mask of dread, his hands trembling as he gripped his hat.
"Boss... something happened."
"Did the police raid a warehouse?" Alexander asked, eyes still on the maps.
"No... worse," Silas swallowed hard. "Marco and Ivan are gone. They were guarding the western shipment. We found the truck—engine still running, cargo untouched. But the men... they evaporated."
Alexander looked up, his senses snapping to attention. "No one evaporates, Silas. Blood? Signs of a struggle?"
"Nothing. Not a scratch. It's as if the earth simply swallowed their souls."
Alexander stood, a cold, oily sensation crawling down his spine. "Take me there."
[II. The Theater of Nothingness] They arrived at a narrow alleyway behind the old slaughterhouse district. The truck sat idle, its doors hanging open like the jaws of a dead beast.
Alexander activated his Vision. He expected to see the lingering residue of terror (Grey) or violence (Red). Instead, he saw... The Void.
Nothing.
The air was unnervingly clean, as if it had been chemically sterilized. There was no emotional echo. No spiritual footprint.
"Impossible," Alexander whispered. "Even the dead leave a shadow on the moment. Whoever did this... they erased their very existence."
Suddenly, a faint, rhythmic sound echoed from a large rusted metal container at the end of the alley.
Tap... Tap... Tap. A slow, clinical beat.
Alexander signaled to Silas. The giant raised his weapon and kicked the lid open. The sight inside made even these seasoned killers recoil in primal disgust.
They weren't dead.
Marco and Ivan were seated inside the container, arranged with surgical precision, facing each other as if in a polite tea session. But their eyes were pinned wide open with microscopic steel needles, fixed in a permanent, agonizing stare. Their mouths had been sewn shut with thick, black surgical thread.
They were breathing. Their hearts were beating. But they were hollow. They stared into the infinite distance, their minds shattered beyond repair.
Alexander grabbed Marco's shoulder. "Marco! Who did this?"
No reaction. The body lived, but the soul had been lobotomized. Alexander looked at Marco's aura. It was a Deathly, Pale White, like a mist about to vanish into the wind. Their wills had been broken by something far beyond physical torture. They had looked into an abyss so terrifying that their minds had committed suicide while leaving the flesh behind.
Alexander found a small white card pinned to Ivan's chest. It bore a single sentence in precise, clinical handwriting:
"Screaming is chaos. I prefer the silence."
[III. The White Doctor] Back at the headquarters, the atmosphere was suffocating. The "Shadows" whispered in fear. An enemy you cannot see, who leaves you alive but "empty," was a horror they weren't prepared for.
Alexander summoned Sokolov. When the old lawyer heard the description of the victims, his glass of brandy slipped from his hand, shattering on the floor.
"My God..." Sokolov whispered. "I thought he died in the revolution. I thought they burned him."
"Who?" Alexander demanded.
"The Hangman... or as he was known in the secret police files: The White Doctor," Sokolov said, his voice shaking. "His name is Sebastian. He was the Chief Inquisitor for the Mad King. He didn't kill rebels. He... 'cured' them."
"Cured them?"
"He performed delicate lobotomies on the frontal lobes. He removed fear, removed anger, removed... the personality. He turned men into silent porcelain dolls. His favorite method is a paralyzing needle to the neck—leaving the victim fully conscious while he begins his 'work'."
Alexander stood up, his jaw set. "Victor summoned him. The 'honest' Inspector has invited a demon to his table."
"Sebastian has no aura, Alexander," Sokolov warned. "They say he was born without emotion. He doesn't hate, he doesn't fear, he doesn't gloat. He is a walking void. Your Vision will not work on him."
[IV. Encounter in the Fog] That night, Alexander did not wait. He went out alone into the Old Quarter, the area Sebastian had chosen for his theater.
The fog was a thick, suffocating shroud, reducing the world to a two-meter radius of grey. Silence. Not even the sound of the wind.
Alexander stopped. He felt it—the Void approaching. A rip in the fabric of the world where no color existed. He turned slowly.
Ten meters away, beneath the flickering amber of a lone gas lamp, stood a man.
He wore a long, pristine white medical coat, a white hat, and latex surgical gloves. His face was covered by a simple white surgical mask, revealing only his eyes—pale, watery blue eyes, devoid of lashes, devoid of life. He looked like a wax statue brought to a terrifying mimicry of life.
"Sebastian," Alexander said, his hand on the grip of his pistol.
The man didn't speak. He tilted his head slightly to the right, like a bird studying a worm. Alexander tried to read him. He focused, searching for a spark of color, a flicker of intent.
Nothing. It was like staring into a blank white wall. It hurt his eyes to even try. This man had no soul to read.
"You contaminate my city with noise," a voice came from behind the mask—soft, calm, and horrifyingly polite. "I am here for a surgical extraction."
Alexander drew his gun and fired. Three rapid shots. Bang! Bang! Bang!
Sebastian moved.
He didn't run. He slid. His movement was inhuman—sharp, impossible angles and blinding speed. He dodged the bullets with the minimum effort required, as if he had mathematically calculated their trajectories before they left the barrel.
In a heartbeat, he was in front of Alexander.
He didn't strike with a fist. He extended a pale hand, and with a lightning-fast motion, plunged a long, slender needle into the muscle of Alexander's shoulder, directly into the nerve cluster.
The pistol fell from Alexander's numbed hand.
Then Sebastian kicked him in the chest—a precise strike that collapsed his lungs, throwing him back against a brick wall. The Hangman approached, a small surgical scalpel gleaming in his hand.
"Your dissection will be most fascinating, Mr. Milov. It is rare to find a brain that functions... differently."
Alexander tried to rise, but his right arm was a dead weight. His vision began to blur—poison in the needle. Sebastian raised the scalpel toward Alexander's eye.
"Do not blink."
[V. The Grey Thread] Suddenly, a thunderous crack echoed from a nearby rooftop. A high-caliber sniper round slammed into the cobblestones between Sebastian's feet, sparks flying.
Sebastian recoiled with incredible agility. He looked up, then back at Alexander. "The patient has visitors. We shall reschedule the surgery."
He dropped a small smoke canister. POOF! A dense white cloud with a sharp chemical odor engulfed the street. When it cleared, the Hangman was gone. The Void had vanished.
Silas scrambled down a fire escape, clutching a heavy sniper rifle, his face a mask of sheer terror. "Boss! Are you alright?"
Alexander clutched his numbed shoulder, feeling the cold poison in his veins. "I'm fine..." he gasped. "But Sokolov was right."
Alexander looked into the empty space where Sebastian had stood. For the first time since he was a child, he saw a color in his own aura that hadn't been there for a long time.
A thin, shivering thread of Grey.
Fear.
"Silas," Alexander said, struggling to stay conscious. "Double the guard. And summon the Three Blind Seers from the Market. This enemy cannot be defeated with lead... we need something that sees what he is not."