The footage looped again.
Shadow tendrils erupted from the darkness, precise and fluid. One strike to the throat, one to the legs. The beast never touched the ground alive.
"Pause," ordered a voice behind the technician.
The screen froze, capturing a blurred glimpse of Leon's hooded figure in the alley's gloom. Just a silhouette.
The man in the back, tall and composed in a dark overcoat, stepped forward. His eyes were sharp, almost surgical.
"Enhance the movement patterns."
The technician obeyed. A model of the shadow threads appeared, reconstructed in three dimensions.
"No registered hunter in the database manipulates shadows like this," the tech murmured. "This is… ancient."
The man didn't respond. He studied the footage one last time before speaking.
"I want boots on the ground in that district. If he appears again, we tag him."
Meanwhile, Leon moved through the city unnoticed.
He had taken shelter in an abandoned train station, deep below the surface. It was one of the old places, from before the Guild's expansion quiet, untouched by modern surveillance.
The air was damp, heavy with the scent of rust and decay. His thoughts felt heavier still.
The fight earlier had felt… natural. Too natural. The shadows obeyed him, but not with the clean precision he remembered. There was weight behind them now an instinct, a hunger. It was as if they had evolved alongside him in the dark.
He raised his hand and summoned a thread.
It writhed, coiling like a serpent before dissolving into a thin wisp of shadow, its form flickering like a half-formed thought. Something was different.
"I'm not alone in this power anymore," he muttered to himself.
Then, he felt it.
A flicker too sharp to be ambient mana. A detection spell.
Leon dropped to a crouch, pressing his palm against the cold floor. Shadows bled outward like smoke, wrapping around the space as his senses expanded. The weight in the air was thick magic, fine-tuned and sharp. They'd found him.
From a side corridor, faint footsteps approached trained, deliberate. Not civilians.
"Zone's quiet," one of the figures whispered. "Signal's stronger here, though. He's nearby."
Private faction. Not official enforcers.
Leon didn't hesitate.
With a flick of his hand, the lights above shattered, sending shards of glass raining down. Shadows exploded across the tunnel, consuming the space in darkness. The hunters reacted too late, their movements frantic as they tried to adjust to the sudden chaos. In the confusion, Leon slipped past, unseen, disappearing into the deeper shadows of the city.
He emerged onto the surface minutes later, masked by the bustling crowds and city noise. But as the adrenaline faded, the gnawing sense of being watched remained.
Someone knew. Someone was tracking him.
Far away, in the upper tower of the Guild's central HQ, Darius Vane stood beside a tall figure cloaked in gray, his posture rigid, his expression a mix of disbelief and cold calculation.
"You saw the footage?" Darius asked, his voice tight.
The figure gave a slow, deliberate nod. "It's him."
Darius's fingers tightened around the glass in his hand, his knuckles whitening. "That's impossible."
The stranger's lips curled into a faint, knowing smile. "Then prepare for the impossible."
The stranger's voice was like a shadow in itself, smooth and unyielding. His cloak shifted as if it had a life of its own, folding in upon itself like a dark memory. The air around him felt colder, as if the light in the room had dimmed slightly since his arrival.
Darius's gaze lingered on the figure for a moment, his mind working rapidly, piecing together the implications. There was no mistake. Leon Ashbourne had returned but not as the man he once knew. Something had changed, something far deeper than just his disappearance.
"Get everything we have on him," Darius ordered, his voice now hard and commanding. "He's too dangerous to be left unchecked."
The stranger nodded, his dark eyes gleaming with an unsettling calm. "Leave it to me."
Back in the shadows, Leon stared down at his hand, watching as the last flicker of shadow slowly dissipated. It curled around his wrist like a forgotten thought, reluctant to let go.
"Still here," he murmured, his voice a low whisper in the silence of the train station.
But so was the world.
And it had eyes.