The corner shop buzzed with the soft crackle of laughter. Archie jostled Kirsty, and Enark and Suzune savored the warmth of freshly baked pastries. But for Enark, the resonance of the city seeped into their joyful moment. He heard everything: distant shouts, the clatter of street vendors setting up for the evening, the scattered chatter of students lingering nearby.
But beneath it all, his ears caught the irregular: a hurried thump of footsteps pacing too quickly down a narrow alley, the muted scrape of metal against stone from some distant workshop, the whisper of wind threading between buildings.
Then he heard it—a scream.
It was faint, distant, almost drowned beneath the city's symphony, but it sliced through everything like a sword.
Enark froze.
The voices of his friends became a soft blur; the scent of fried snacks, the tang of hot iron from the streetlights, the shuffle of pedestrians—all dimmed beneath the urgency of that sound.
Archie, still laughing, noticed nothing. Suzune and Kirsty chatted beside him, unaware of the sudden tension boiling in Enark's body. Every fiber of him screamed to move, to run--to act.
"I… I gotta go, guys," Enark said, his voice tight, betraying a tension he tried to hide.
"What? Why? Where are you going?" Archie asked, confused.
"Uh… homework," Enark muttered quickly. "Yeah, I—uh, I've got homework to do...you know?"
"Are you serious? It's the first day—we don't even have homework," Kirsty said, frowning.
"Right… right," Enark stumbled over his words. "They gave me… a special task. Yeah, a special assignment. I'll see you guys tomorrow—get home safe!" He forced a smile, then turned and started walking away. After turning the corner, he pivoted sharply and dashed down the street.
The clamor of the corner shop faded behind him as he sprinted down the alley. Voices rose faintly from behind—Archie's frustrated shout, Kirsty's scolding tone, Suzune's sharp worry—but they were muffled, distant, and blurred by the rhythm of his own heartbeat. Each word he sensed, pressed against him like a weight. It hurt—more than he wanted to admit—but he didn't slow and pressed on forward.
-----------------------------
Enark's shoes struck the cobblestones in rapid succession, each impact a drumbeat he could feel in his legs. The alley narrowed, walls pressing in on either side, and he adjusted his stride instinctively, leaning slightly to the left as the rough brick scraped a whisper against his shirt.
A loose crate lay in his path. He felt the faint vibration underfoot—the wood hollowed and unsteady. Without hesitation, he leapt. Air rushed past his face; a faint smell of damp wood hit his nose. He landed, knees bending to absorb the impact as the momentum carried him forward.
A fire escape loomed overhead. He gripped, muscles tensing as he swung, launching himself to the platform with a dull clang. The structure groaned beneath his weight. He climbed fast, counting each rung by feel and vibration, until the open air greeted him.
He vaulted over the roof's low wall and landed in a crouch.
Wind brushed against his face, carrying the city's breath with it.
For a brief moment, he was still. He couldn't see his city, but he could feel its spirit.
Enark kneeled as he shrugged his bag from his shoulder and set it down. He reached into a side pocket and pulled out loosely folded clothing.
The change was quick. Navy-blue pants, loose and flexible. A fitted black shirt that clung close without restricting movement. Finally, the black blindfold. He wrapped it around his eyes and tied it tight behind his head.
The noise of the city sharpened.
The figure in black had returned!
Without hesitation, he took off.
His feet skimmed across the rooftop tiles, each step light, deliberate. He felt the shift in elevation through his soles and adjusted his pace as gravel gave way to smooth stone.
A gap.
He sensed it before reaching the edge—the sudden drop in reflected sound, the way the air rushed upward. Enark pushed off without hesitation, clearing the alley below and landing hard on the next roof. Moving again before the echo of his landing faded.
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The rooftops changed as Enark pushed farther from the academy in District Six.
Polished stone gave way to older brick. The air grew heavier, tinged with oil and rust, clinging faintly to the wind. Two districts passed beneath his feet—not measured in distance, but in the way the city's rhythm shifted. Fewer voices. Fewer laughs. Footsteps became hurried. Doors locked more than they opened.
He slowed as sound flooded his awareness.
Not a scream this time.
Voices—clustered, overlapping, sharp with tension. Right where he had first heard it.
Enark eased to the edge of a rooftop and dropped into a crouch, fingers brushing rough stone as he leaned forward. He pressed himself against the low wall, chest rising and falling as sweat cooled along his spine. Beneath him, vibrations traveled cleanly through the structure—heavy and familiar.
Enforcers.
The subtle clink of equipment idled at their hips. The air carried the sterile bite of alchemical polish, layered over iron and smoke.
"What are they doing here…?" he murmured under his breath.
He focused, mapping the space by sound and pressure alone.
Both ends of the alley were sealed. Barricades stationed at either exit.
Beneath the sharp tang of oil and gunpowder, another scent reached him.
Blood.
His jaw tightened.
Enark narrowed his senses further.
The alley floor was wrong. Stone that should have been smooth bore fractures spiralling outward. Scorch marks marred the ground, edges warped and softened as if the material itself had forgotten how to remain solid.
It was the mark of one thing.
The residuals of Prime Energy!
He had felt traces of it earlier in the academy halls—faint, distant.
But this was nothing like that.
This was violent.
A voice cut cleanly through the noise.
"Alright, listen up."
Enark tilted his head, locking onto the sound.
The man stood near the center of the alley, posture rigid but worn, as though the weight of too many nights like this had settled permanently into his bones. His coat was plain compared to the others, but the badge at his chest carried unmistakable authority. His voice was steady—controlled—but threaded with something sharper beneath it.
Fatigue and frustration.
"This wasn't a robbery," the man continued. "And it sure as hell wasn't a drunken fistfight."
An Enforcer hesitated nearby. "Sir… the damage here could only point to one thing."
"I know," the man replied, exhaling through his nose. "That's the problem."
Enark's fingers curled against the stone.
"This guy… he's—"
"Detective Landon! He's Kirsty's father..." Enark continued, "It's been a while since I last saw him. But still... his precinct is six districts away. What is he doing all the way out here?"
"What about witnesses?" someone asked.
"None who'll talk," Landon said. "Doors stayed shut. Windows stayed closed. Same story as the last three."
"The last three..." Enark's pulse spiked.
Another Enforcer stepped forward, holding a pale white-and-green reed-like stalk that trembled violently in his grip, reacting to something unseen.
"Detective," he said carefully, "this confirms that there are residuals of energy here. Though it's faint--."
"I see it," Landon cut in. "And I don't like it."
Silence followed. Then the detective dragged a hand down his face and straightened.
"Figures," Landon exhaled." Imperial Knights leave the city, and suddenly everyone gets brave."
"Get this cleaned up. Quietly. Double patrols in the surrounding districts. If this is what I think it is…" His voice hardened. "We don't want panic."
Enark leaned back from the edge, breath slow and measured, forcing control where instinct screamed otherwise.
His heart thudded in his ears as the truth settled in.
He had come to stop a crime.
Instead, he had arrived too late.
"Again…" Enark whispered.