The air hung thick.
But the silence?
Heavier.
Denser.
Like a lung forgetting how to exhale.
Steam curled from the untouched tea—lazy, slow.
The smell of cinnamon clung to the café's walls, wrapped in soft amber light.
Comforting at first.
Until something beneath it bled through.
Sour.
Metallic.
Like rust soaked in vinegar.
Like a corpse someone forgot to hide.
Behind the counter, the old man turned.
He didn't blink.
Didn't breathe.
Didn't move like a person.
And then—
That same flat, mechanical tone—
"What will it be?"
A pause. Then again:
"What will it be?"
And again:
"What will it be?"
Each repetition cracked more than the last.
Like a vinyl skipping over a nightmare.
FWIP—BOOM.
Ray didn't even look.
He just lifted his left arm, twisted his wrist with a dry, mechanical snap, and pulled the trigger.
The revolver's chamber spun with a hungry whir.
One shot.
Fast.
Precise.
The old man's chest folded inward—imploded—before the sound of the gun had even finished echoing through the room.
He staggered.
Once.
Then collapsed behind the counter—
Like a marionette whose strings had been cut.
No blood.
Just thick, black coolant.
It oozed from the wound.
Pooled across the tile in slow, deliberate arcs.
The same color Doran had seen before.
The same color that bled from Ray's own skull.
Not oil.
Not blood.
Something in between.
"W-What the hell…" Kellon muttered, half-risen from his seat.
Doran's eyes narrowed.
His steps were slow, deliberate—forward.
His voice calm, but lined with steel.
"Like I said," he murmured. "Worse."
CLACK.
Ray snapped the revolver back into place.
Rolled his wrist.
A clean, fluid motion.
A whir whispered through the café—
like a predator flexing its claws beneath the tablecloth.
His grin widened.
All teeth.
All static.
No warmth.
No words.
He raised his arm.
Aimed the barrel squarely at Doran.
Paused.
Tilted his head—just slightly.
Then—
Switched targets.
BLAM!
The shot roared across the café.
Doran was already moving—
before the trigger finished pulling.
A blur of black and flame.
He twisted—spun—
fingers locking around the hilt strapped across his back.
Shhhrrk—!
The sword shrieked free.
A blaze of steel.
A scatter of sparks.
CLANG!
Steel met lead mid-air.
The bullet ricocheted off the blade and slammed into the counter behind them—
CRACK—!
Wood exploded, splinters flying.
The frame split in half with a guttural groan.
Kellon dropped low, diving to the floor.
He rolled cleanly—reflex, not thought.
Years of instinct.
Hand snapping to his sidearm.
Breath tight in his throat.
But his eyes?
Still focused.
Across the ruined bar, Ray's crimson optics locked onto Doran's.
For a moment—
No one moved.
No breath.
No sound.
Just that hum of boiling silence.
Then:
"You're faster than last time," Ray said.
His voice was low.
Slick.
Like oil lit on fire.
He rolled his neck once—
Crk-KRRRK—
the sound of grinding metal whispering through the air like a knife sharpening itself.
"Guess I won't let you hit me this time."
Doran didn't respond.
Didn't blink.
Didn't flinch.
He stepped forward.
The greatsword in his grip hummed—
low, slow, hot.
Wisps of red bled along its edge like the weapon was holding its breath.
Waiting to burn.
Ray chuckled.
Short. Static-laced.
"Ha. Still no talk?"
He tilted his head, optics glinting.
"Come on. At least curse me. That's what your type does, right? Say a prayer, scream my name, call me a monster—"
His revolver arm lifted mid-sentence.
BANG. BANG.
Two shots. Fast. Unforgiving.
Doran moved.
The first bullet tore through empty space—
right where his head had been a heartbeat ago.
The second—
SHHRRRK—CLANG!
Steel met fire.
The blade caught the round mid-swing, scattering molten shrapnel like shattered fireflies.
Sparks bit into the floor behind him—hissing, burning.
Ray advanced.
Fluid.
Lethal.
His body pivoted in a blur of mechanical grace.
Low.
Then up.
A brutal kick snapped toward Doran's jaw.
Doran stopped.
Not with a block.
With instinct.
A whisper of stillness.
Then—he moved.
Ducked beneath the kick.
One hand shot out.
Then the other.
Both locked around Ray's leg—tight as chains.
And with a grunt that came from the core of him—
CRASH.
He threw him.
Ray's body spun midair—
his coat flaring behind him like a torn banner.
WHUMP.
He sailed clean through the broken café doors—splintered wood parting like a stage giving way.
Out into the street.
His boots struck slick cobblestone—skidding.
One hand slammed down to catch his balance.
SCREEEEE—CHHHT!
Sparks screamed beneath him as he carved a trail backward—
a burning line of light through the dark.
He slid to a stop beneath a flickering streetlamp.
The bulb above him stuttered.
Once.
Twice.
FZZZZZT.
Darkness.
Ray rose slowly.
His silhouette framed by the dying lamp—
flickering behind him like a heartbeat losing rhythm.
And he grinned.
"You know," he called out—
voice smooth, slick, like a knife drawn through silk,
"if you lose sight of me—"
His eyes gleamed.
"It's over for you."
He didn't wait for a reply.
He charged.
Doran answered in kind—
bursting out of the café like a drawn blade,
boots thundering over broken tile and shattered glass.
They collided in the street.
BOOM—!
Fist met forearm.
Doran caught the blow high—
his gauntlet locking Ray's strike with a brutal CLANG of steel on steel.
CRASH—!
Ray twisted low, fluid as smoke.
A sharp kick snapped toward Doran's knee—tight, fast, lethal.
Doran dropped his weight.
Twisted.
His boots scraped against the cobblestone—
grk-KSHHH!
grit and glass hissing beneath them as he pivoted.
The kick cut through empty space.
WHUMP.
Ray's leg passed where Doran's knee had been a blink before.
Just air.
BANG.
Point-blank.
Ray's revolver barked again.
Doran leaned—just enough.
The bullet hissed past his shoulder, slicing through the edge of his cloak.
CRASH!
It punched into the lamppost behind him.
The pole shuddered—
then cracked down the center.
The light detached.
Spun once.
Then dropped—
SSSHH—KRSSHH!
Glass exploded across the cobblestones.
Electricity fizzed, sparked, then died—its last breath hissing into the rain-slick air.
Ray didn't stop.
He pressed in.
Closer.
Faster.
His revolver spun with a mechanical whir, barrel clicking into place like jaws locking around a throat.
Doran dropped low.
His greatsword swung wide and rising—an upward arc meant to cleave through Ray's mid-charge.
But Ray dipped lower.
Too low.
In a blur of motion, he dropped to all fours and slid beneath the blade—
crawling across the street like a living weapon, fast and wrong and feral.
"Tch—!"
Doran twisted—fast.
Tracking with instinct, blade already shifting to follow.
But—
He was gone.
A blur to the left.
A flicker behind.
Then—
WHAM.
A palm slammed into Doran's back.
And the world folded.
THOOM—
The impact rang out like a cathedral bell struck by lightning.
The force reverberated through his chest, through the cobblestones, through everything.
His body shuddered from the blow—
armor straining, breath hitching.
The street swayed beneath him.
Then—
CRRKKKK—!
A burst of embers exploded from Doran's chest.
Orange.
Golden.
Blue.
They surged outward like a dying star shedding its core—
wild, radiant, alive.
And then—
Avon shot out.
A streak of fire with wings carved from flickering arcs, both elegant and furious.
Orange bled into cobalt at the tips, each beat of his wings strobing the sky with divine rhythm—like a god's heartbeat set to flame.
He hovered midair—flared once.
Then again.
Then stilled.
Drifting into a quiet float directly in front of Doran.
Doran staggered back, eyes wide.
The chill hit instantly.
Where heat had pulsed from his chest— there was nothing.
His vision dimmed—
Crimson bleeding away to a pale, flickering gold.
The flames that once danced along the edge of his sword?
Snuffed.
The warmth in his lungs?
Gone.
And for the first time in months—
his breath froze.
A soft fog slipped from his lips, curling upward like the last breath of a dying fire.
Doran exhaled through clenched teeth.
"What the hell are you doing?" he growled.
Voice low.
Sharp as steel across stone.
"Get back inside."
Avon hovered—unbothered.
Wings of fire pulsing with a lazy, molten beat.
He tilted his head—
the motion casual, almost amused.
"I thought you kicked me out," he said, voice smooth. Unhurried.
Far too calm for the chaos unraveling around them.
"Or maybe that was just your spine breaking."
A pause.
"Hard to tell."
On the street, Ray crouched—
still as a shadow beneath the broken streetlamp.
His grin stretched wider, distorted by the flicker in his optics.
"Now you're talking to yourself?" he called, laughing—short, sharp, cruel.
"You really are crazy."
CLACK—HSSSS.
His revolver clicked back into place with a hiss of compressed air.
"Let's fix that."
BANG!
The shot cracked through the air like a snapped bone.
Doran moved.
No hesitation.
He ducked left—blade snapping up in a tight defensive arc.
CLANG—!
Steel screamed as the bullet struck, ricocheting off the sword's edge.
It punched into the alley wall behind him—
BOOM!
Brick and dust erupted in a blast of orange and grey.
"Avon, get back inside!" Doran snapped, spinning on his heel—just as Ray lunged.
Avon hovered just overhead—far too relaxed, wings glowing blue and orange like a sunrise deciding whether or not to burn the world.
"And why should I listen to you?" he shot back, folding his arms mid-air.
"It's not like you're doing a stellar job out here."
THUD.
Ray's fist crashed into Doran's gauntlet like a cannonball slamming stone.
Doran blocked—barely.
He threw his shoulder forward in retaliation—
WHAM.
It landed.
But it lacked the usual power.
Slower.
Heavier.
Ray felt it.
Didn't miss a beat.
A fake-out kick snapped low.
Doran moved to counter—
"Tch—!"
Too slow.
Ray's arm whipped up instead—
THMP.
A brutal hook slammed into Doran's ribs.
Something cracked.
Then—
CRASH!
His body flew backward—
smashed through the café window across the street.
Glass erupted—
a silver arc of jagged light across the dark.
THUD.
He slammed into the far wall—hard—then dropped to cracked tile like a fallen statue.
The room trembled.
And across the street, Ray straightened—
shoulders rising with each breath, grin still carved across his face.
Like the fight had finally started.
Dust drifted lazily through the air.
And for a moment—
everything stilled.
But the silence that followed wasn't natural.
It felt staged.
Like the room had been waiting.
Built not to shelter, but to receive.
No furniture.
No clutter.
No warmth.
Just four walls and a single purpose:
Break the thing that lands inside.
Doran coughed—once.
Blood traced the corner of his mouth as he slowly pushed himself upright.
Above him, Avon drifted through the shattered window.
No urgency. No panic.
He floated like a falling leaf—wings flickering in slow pulses of orange and blue.
Soft glows stretched across the cracked walls as he descended,
his arrival more observation than concern.
"Really looks like you're struggling there, Doran," Avon said.
His voice was light—too light.
Head tilted.
Ember eyes narrowing just enough to cut.
"I mean—I'd help, but I wouldn't wanna hurt your pride."
Doran braced a hand against the wall, rising fully.
His boots scraped against the tile.
He winced.
A thin line of blood slid from a fresh cut across his lip.
Another breath came out ragged.
"Now's not the time," he muttered, voice taut, iron barely holding back the fire.
Avon flared his wings in a dramatic shrug—
floating backward, just out of reach.
"You dragged me out, remember?" he quipped.
"Not my fault you burn out faster than a match in a wind tunnel."
Outside, Ray advanced.
Not running.
Not sprinting.
Just walking.
Calm.
Certain.
His shadow stretched across the cobblestones—
long, deliberate, crawling beside him like it knew the ending.
With one hand, Ray reached out—ripped the head off a nearby streetlamp with a single tug.
SKRRRK—!
Sparks flared. Metal groaned.
He bounced it in his palm.
Once.
Twice.
Like a child toying with a rock.
Then—
THUNK.
He hurled it through the shattered café window—a fastball from hell.
Inside—
Doran was still mid-argument, eyes locked on Avon.
"You chose to come out on your own. Now, get back ins—"
CRACK!
The lamp head slammed into the side of his skull.
SPARKS exploded on contact—
metal against bone, glass shredding through flesh.
A sharp burst of blood bloomed across his temple as his body reeled sideways.
His vision blurred.
Colors split.
Red danced behind his eyes.
Static crawled across the edge of his thoughts.
Shards embedded deep—his cheek, his shoulder, across his nose.
Blood spilled freely—trailing down into the dust like liquid fire.
Above him, Avon winced.
Wings curled tight, cringing like a bystander at a crash.
"Wow," he muttered.
"Did not see that coming. Okay… maybe I did."
Doran didn't answer.
His breath hitched—
Then stilled.
Something inside him—snapped into place.
His hand moved.
Fast.
Fluent.
SHHHHRK—!
His right arm shot back, fingers locking around the hilt of his second greatsword.
The blade screamed.
Metal howled against leather as it tore free.
Now both swords pulsed in his grip.
The left—slick with blood.
The right—glowing faintly, heat licking along its edge like it was begging to burn.
Doran didn't speak.
He charged.
CRASH!
He burst back through the window—glass crunching beneath his boots, blood trailing behind him like a comet of flame.
His eyes—
burned gold.
Ray stood at the center of the street.
Perfectly still.
No stance.
No reaction.
No fear.
He wasn't surprised.
He was waiting.
As if he'd seen this coming.
As if Doran's rage had already been calculated—
Measured.
Predicted.
Doran hit like a storm made of steel.
Both greatswords swept wide—
whistling arcs that screamed through the air, carving sparks into the cobblestones.
One blade came high—
a burning crescent meant to break a skull.
The other swept low—tight, slicing, fatal.
Ray's eyes narrowed—just a sliver.
He lifted his revolver arm, not to shoot, but to parry.
CLANG!
He caught the high blade on the thick of the barrel and twisted—
joints clicking in perfect sync as he redirected the force.
The second blade came in too fast.
Too low.
But Ray dropped his stance—
Pivoted on his heel—
And angled Doran's first blade into the path of the second.
CLASH!
Steel collided.
A brutal X locked between them.
The impact shuddered through Doran's arms.
Sparks erupted—hot and hungry.
They held like that.
Just a breath.
Deadlocked.
No fire pulsed in Doran's veins.
No heat flared in his blade.
And Ray?
Still grinning.
"You fight like a man with something to prove," he said—voice low, slick, sharp as shrapnel.
He leaned in closer—
pressure rising.
"Problem is… you gotta fight like you can't lose."
Doran growled, boots grinding against the stone.
Muscles tensed.
His shoulder twisted—
And then—
"Excuse me a moment."
The voice came soft.
Polite.
Utterly calm.
So wildly out of place it broke the rhythm of the world.
Time stuttered.
Even Ray blinked.
Their weapons stayed locked.
But the street—
Held its breath.
Both men paused—
only for a blink.
Just long enough to register it.
At the far end of the street—
a woman.
Young. Still.
Wrapped in an elegant blue dress that flowed across the ground like liquid silk.
A wide-brimmed hat shadowed most of her face,
save for a sliver of her lips—
a soft curve of crimson calm.
"I was wondering," she asked,
in a tone far too serene for the wreckage before her,
"if you knew where your friend went?"
Doran's eye twitched.
Ray didn't even look at her.
"Don't care."
WHAM—!
He slammed forward, kicking off the blade-lock with sudden, brutal force.
Doran staggered backward—
boots sliding over blood-slick cobblestone—
and barely twisted his blade in time to deflect the follow-up blow aimed dead at his ribs.
SCRRANG—!
Sparks flared. Metal screamed.
"Damn it—another problem," Doran grunted.
But her voice—
It lingered.
Like perfume in poison.
Like a whisper you weren't supposed to hear.
Where's Kellon…?
The thought cut through him harder than Ray's blade.
Last I saw… he was behind me. In the restaurant. Alone.
Then…
The old man—
Dusty—
No—Ray.
Right after that…
Kellon vanished.
Across the street, the woman hadn't moved.
Hadn't blinked.
Just stood there—
smiling faintly.
Like she was commenting on the weather.
"This is a rather big city," she said, almost sweetly.
"Would be a shame if he got… lost."
BOOM—!
A shot screamed past Doran's ear—
grazing his shoulder with a white-hot kiss of pain.
"Tch—!"
He snarled, twisting away as Ray advanced again—
silent. Calculating.
Predatory.
"Focus up, Doran!" Avon called from above,
his tone somewhere between annoyed sibling and bored general.
"Worry about what's in front of you first!"
BOOM!
Another shot.
But this time—
Doran was ready.
He spun his greatsword arcing with molten precision.
CLANG!
Steel met bullet.
The round shattered in midair—splintering into molten fragments that hissed and skipped off his gauntlet like angry fireflies.
Ray lunged again.
Doran caught the strike mid-swing—
but his footing was wrong.
Unsteady.
His thoughts split down the center.
Kellon's missing.
The girl knows something.
Ray's trying to kill me.
And Avon won't help me.
Everything was converging.
Too fast.
At the far end of the street,
the woman began to walk.
No urgency.
No fear.
Her heels clicked softly against the cobblestone,
barely a whisper beneath the violence.
Her blue dress drifted just above the ground— not so much walking
as gliding.
CLANG!
Ray's elbow crashed down from above—
Doran caught it just in time, steel screaming against reinforced alloy.
Another strike.
Uppercut.
Doran jerked back, lungs heaving.
Roundhouse.
He caught it on his gauntlet—
but his boots slid, the force too heavy to root down against.
Jab.
Cross.
Blocked—barely.
Each hit carved a new trail of sparks in the air,
bright like dying stars.
But between every strike,
Doran's eyes flicked to her.
Closer.
Calm.
Untouched.
Like the fight wasn't even happening.
Like she was the only real thing on the street.
Why is she still walking?
Doran took a step back—
his stance slipping.
From aggression
to containment.
He started steering the fight away from her—subtle footwork, blade arcs made wide on purpose.
Trying to pull Ray off her path.
CRASH!
Ray struck again—fists a blur.
Doran ducked, then swiped low—his blade biting air, just trying to create space.
"Ma'am!" he barked, voice raw. "You need to get off the street! It's too dangerous!"
She didn't stop.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't blink.
She just… smiled.
Wide.
Deliberate.
Like she already knew how this scene ended.
Ray's fist slipped past Doran's guard.
THUD!
A direct hit—buried deep in his gut.
Air vanished from Doran's lungs.
His feet left the ground.
CRASH!
He slammed into a crate pile near the alley wall.
Wood shattered.
Dust exploded.
Something cracked.
He coughed hard, blood trailing down his chin.
And through the haze—
He saw Ray.
Standing tall.
Revolver raised.
Aimed.
Right at him.
Doran's pupils narrowed—
arms too heavy to lift.
Ray's finger tightened—
Then—
BANG!
But the shot wasn't meant for Doran.
The woman jolted.
Her shoulders snapped stiff.
Her arms locked at her sides.
But her smile?
Didn't even twitch.
Then—she collapsed.
Ray didn't move.
Didn't blink.
His revolver arm slowly lowered the rest of the way—until it hung by his side like dead weight.
The pool of black coolant widened, inching closer to his boots. The streetlight above flickered once, casting long, uneasy shadows that warped the lines of the woman's crumpled dress.
"She wasn't real," Ray muttered again, but this time softer. Like he was trying to convince himself. "Just another drone. A puppet in a pretty dress."
Doran's voice cut through the air like a blade.
"She smiled."
Ray's head twitched.
"She smiled before you shot her," Doran continued, stepping forward, his boots dragging faint trails of blood behind him. "You think puppets do that?"
A pause.
A long one.
Then—
"She was a trap," Ray growled. But it lacked conviction now. "Meant to throw us off."
"She was watching." Doran's tone sharpened, striking bone. "Just like the rest of this city. But she wasn't pretending."
Another step.
The tension in Ray's shoulders coiled like a spring—but he didn't raise the gun.
"You didn't hesitate," Doran said. "That's what bothers you."
Ray looked up—eyes glowing a harsher red now, the heat behind them rising like pressure in a sealed valve.
"I'm not broken," he said flatly.
Doran stopped two paces away. His swords still at his sides, but the air around him felt different now—thicker. Like the moment before a storm hit full force.
"I didn't say you were."
Ray's jaw clenched. His gaze flicked back to the coolant. Then to the woman. Then—
He turned his head.
Just slightly.
Toward the alley.
Back toward the café.
"…Where's your other friend?"
Doran's brow twitched.
Ray's voice dropped lower.
Calculated. Cold.
"If that one was real, what do you think they're doing to him?"
He didn't wait for an answer.
He just started walking—right past the woman's body, boots splashing through the coolant without hesitation. No flourish this time. No performance.
Just purpose.
And silence.
Doran watched him pass, unmoving.
Then looked down at the body one last time.
The wind caught the edge of the dress again—lifting it faintly, like a breath that didn't belong.
And then it stilled.
Dead again.
Like the question it left behind.
Then—
She stood.
No warning.
No breath drawn.
No recovery twitch.
Just motion.
Her limbs straightened slowly, deliberately—like strings had been pulled from above. A marionette, not a woman. A gesture designed, not decided.
Black coolant still poured from the wound in her side.
Thick. Steady. Wrong.
It bled down her dress, soaked into her shoes, and pattered softly onto the cobblestones with a rhythm too consistent to be human.
She smiled.
Ray blinked.
Doran didn't move.
Neither spoke.
Neither could.
The impossible had arrived—and wore the face of the dead.
Then—
Whrrr-click.
The café doors creaked open behind them.
From the shadows stepped the old man.
The one Ray had shot.
The one whose chest had collapsed inward.
The one who hadn't twitched as black coolant spilled across the floor.
Now, he wheeled himself forward.
A rusted chair creaked beneath him, one wheel dragging slightly with a soft metallic grind.
His apron still hung from his thin frame.
His skin still pale.
His eyes still vacant.
But his legs…
Didn't move.
They dangled lifelessly from the chair. Dead weight. Hollow skin stretched over obsolete machinery.
Doran stared.
"What the hell…" he whispered.
Ray stepped back—not with fear, but with precision.
His fingers twitched near the grip of his revolver. A calculation. A reset.
And then—
The street changed.
From every alley.
From every doorway.
From every dim-lit corridor and crooked window—
They came.
Civilians.
Dozens.
Moving in perfect synchrony, as though responding to a single command.
Men in rust-brown coats.
Women in crimson trench dresses.
Children with pale, mirrored eyes.
They spilled into the street without panic. Without sound. Each step as smooth as clockwork.
They formed a ring—wide, careful, deliberate—encircling Ray and Doran at the center.
No one spoke. No one blinked. No one looked at each other.
Only at them.
Only at the ones who still moved freely.