Even in victory, the city keeps breathing — smog in, secrets out.
Their boots clanged against rusted metal and cracked concrete as Asher, Rosa, and Lucien emerged from the yawning mouth of a derelict subway tunnel. The sky above was sick with neon — a ceiling of synthetic stars and humming power lines. Nocturne City loomed in garish color, flickering and pulsing like a living wound stitched with lights.
A holo-advertisement burst to life on a nearby building, showcasing a grinning mascot hawking memory enhancers. It blared, "Recall your better self!" just as Rosa stumbled, clutching her ribs.
Her knuckles were scraped, her boots scuffed to hell, and her jacket was stained with dried blood and ash.
Rosa (grunting): "No more cults. No more damn churches. I swear, Ash, if our next job's another haunted basement—"
Lucien (lighting a smoke): "I'm starting to miss simple murder gigs. You know? Mob bosses. Corrupt CEOs. Less faces, more bullets."
Asher didn't answer. His jaw tightened as his eyes flicked to every surface that shimmered with reflection — rain puddles, a bent side mirror, polished chrome on a passing bike. His fingers hovered near his holster, Noir humming quietly on his hip.
Noir (softly, in his earpiece): "Threat level nominal. But paranoia is advised, detective."
He didn't disagree.
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Welcome Back to Nocturne
The trio stepped into South Bastion District — a place permanently trapped between demolition and gentrification. Skyscrapers rose half-finished, their skeletal spires lost in fog, while makeshift stalls peddled fried noodles and old data drives beneath dangling wires and flickering lights.
Suddenly, a food vendor bot veered into their path, almost colliding with Rosa.
Bot (shouting): "TRY OUR NEW SYNTH-PORK DUMPLINGS! BUY ONE, GET SEVEN FREE! GUARANTEED TO ONLY CAUSE MILD HALLUCINATIONS!"
Rosa (gritting her teeth): "Back off, toaster."
She smacked the bot's tray away and kept limping forward.
A drunken office worker wearing bunny ears stumbled past, one heel broken, babbling about "the Watchers stealing her dreams."
Moments later, a hovercar sputtered violently, then crashed into a nearby noodle stand. The chef didn't react. He just turned up the wok's flame and muttered something about cursed zoning permits.
Lucien (dryly): "Ahh… home sweet hell."
Rosa (half-smirking): "Yeah. We ain't normal people, are we?"
Asher (flatly): "No. We're the ones they send in when normal breaks."
"Neon Siren" stood like a wounded god — a half-lit karaoke bar sandwiched between a laundromat that didn't wash clothes and a tattoo parlor that also sold illegal cyberware.
Their safehouse was above it. A cramped, creaking top-floor apartment that somehow smelled like whiskey and soldered wires.
Asher set a small, jagged shard of mirror down on the scratched table. It glinted unnaturally, despite the low light. Noir's scanner lit up with a soft tone.
Noir: "Residual echo signature. Low threat… but persistent."
Lucien tossed his jacket over a lamp and dropped a half-empty bottle of synth-whiskey with a clunk.
Lucien: "Persistent? That's just like your damn city, Ash. No matter how many monsters we cap, new ones crawl out. Like a hydra with a grudge."
Rosa collapsed onto the threadbare couch, arms sprawled over the armrest.
Rosa (muffled): "I vote for a week off. No cases. No cults. Just sleep, synth-noodles, and maybe punching dumb street thugs for cardio."
Asher almost smiled — the left corner of his mouth twitched. That was as close as he got.
Asher: "City's already spinning up something worse. I can feel it."
Noir (subtly): "He's correct. Seismic data, emotional spike patterns, and gang activity suggest imminent escalation."
Lucien (groaning): "Fantastic. Let's die tired then."
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Seeds of New Trouble
Cut to: North Nocturne. Luxury tower. A place where the air actually gets filtered.
A dark room flickered with static-blue light from a massive wall of surveillance screens. On each screen: freeze frames of the cathedral battle — Mother Reflection exploding, glass shards falling, Asher aiming high.
A woman stood in silhouette — tall, graceful, backlit by a crimson data curtain. Only her lips moved, painted perfectly, curving into a cruel smirk.
Woman (silken, amused): "They killed Mother Reflection. Good… That clears the board for Phase Two."
The screens glitched and reloaded — now showing the emblems of city factions:
The snarling logo of the Night Fangs.
A twisting spiral — the mark of an unknown new cult.
The cold chrome emblem of Helix Dominion Industries.
Woman (softly): "Let's see if the detective can survive the next sermon."
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Closing Beat — The Cigarette Pact
Back on the apartment balcony, the trio leaned against the rusting rail, bathed in the buzz of city noise and false starlight.
Lucien offered his pack of smokes. Rosa took one, lighting it with her fingertip — a flicker of her willpower burning bright again.
Asher hesitated. He hadn't smoked in years. But after today?
He took one. Lit it.
Lucien: "Smoke break. For the fallen. For the living. And for the poor bastards we'll have to shoot tomorrow."
They smoked in silence. Below, traffic moved like blood through broken arteries. A kid ran past, spray-painting a crude image of Mother Reflection's face on a wall before vanishing into the alley shadows.
Asher's eyes lingered.
Asher (softly): "Yeah… it's never over."
Noir: "Round two approaches, detective. Shall we prepare?"
Asher flicked his cigarette over the railing.
Asher: "Yeah. Load the damn gun."
Inside, the mirror shard on their table flickered faintly.
Just for a second… a new face appeared in the reflection.
It was grinning.
[End of Chapter 81]
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Next Chapter – "Bait on the Neon Hook"
The peace shatters fast. A missing person case drags Asher's team into Nocturne's corporate underbelly — and this time, the monsters wear business suits.