The night was humid—thick with the scent of oil, concrete, and old rain. From the rooftop's edge, HeartEater stood like a statue carved from war and wrath. His black cloak rippled in the breath of the city, and the wind coiled around him as if unsure whether to embrace or flee. Below, the streets pulsed with dim neon, a half-beating heart of filth and false promise.
Behind his gray mask, faded ember-orange eyes locked onto movement. A courier.
Same headset. Same crates. Different face.
He had watched for an hour, mapping the rhythm of this ghost. But the pattern—deliberate, rehearsed—had given them away.
Enough.
With the silent coiling of a spring, he launched forward. His boots slammed against the edge of the rooftop, and then he was airborne—nothing but a shadow slicing through the dark.
The man on the ground never saw him coming.
HeartEater landed with precision and violence. One boot crashed down on the crate mid-hand-off. Wood splintered, contents shattered into pieces—black metal parts scattering like teeth. The courier stumbled backward with a strangled yelp, headset falling from his ear, eyes wide with uncomprehending fear. He turned and bolted into the dark alley, disappearing like a frightened rat.
HeartEater didn't move.
Didn't need to.
Crack.
A gunshot snapped the air—sharp, direct. The bullet struck his back. His body jerked forward a fraction. Not from pain. From force.
Then silence again.
Slowly, with the inevitability of a storm turning its eye, he rotated his head.
Behind him, the suited man stood frozen. Trembling. Arms locked in place, pistol raised, smoke rising from the barrel like an accusing finger.
HeartEater stared.
The wound at his back twisted shut, muscle lacing back together in slow motion, the flesh knotted and angry. A dull metallic sound followed—the bullet dropping to the pavement behind him, rejected by a body that refused to bleed.
He turned fully.
One sickle slid from his belt with a rasp of steel.
He moved before the man could scream.
The curved blade swept in a clean arc, coming to rest—cold and gleaming—just beneath the man's chin. Close enough that the edge kissed his flesh, but did not break it.
HeartEater's voice rumbled out, gravel and threat laced into every word.
"Why?"
The man blinked rapidly, lips parting without sound.
HeartEater leaned closer, blade pressing lightly against the skin. "Why the headsets? Why the crates?"
The man stammered something—but it wasn't English. The syllables cracked with fear. Familiar. Familiar enough.
HeartEater narrowed his glowing eyes. "German," he muttered. Then louder, colder:
"Sprich. Schnell. Ich verstehe dich." Speak. Now. I understand you.
The man's voice was shaking. "Es ist... nicht mein Plan. Ich bringe nur die Lieferungen."
It's not my plan. I only make deliveries.
"Für wen?" HeartEater growled.
For who?
The man swallowed audibly, sweat streaking down his temple. "Eine Frau... mit einem weißen Anzug... sie ist der Boss."
A woman... in a white suit... she's the boss.
HeartEater's gaze drilled into him—searching, measuring the truth behind his panic. After a long pause, the sickle pulled away with a slow, whispering scrape of steel on air.
He stepped closer.
The man gasped, half in relief, half in terror.
"Ich gebe dir drei Warnungen," HeartEater said. You get three warnings.
He leaned in, eye to eye. "Du hast gerade deine erste bekommen."
That was your first.
"If I see you again," he said, switching back to English like a hammer slamming down, "with a headset or a crate… I will find you. I don't care if you hide in another city, another country. I'll drag you out. And end you."
The man nodded rapidly, his whole body trembling. He dropped to his knees, breath ragged, eyes wild. He didn't speak. He didn't beg. He couldn't.
HeartEater turned from him, the sickle vanishing back into its sheath with a hiss of steel.
Behind him, the man fumbled—raised the gun again on instinct. But his hands betrayed him. They trembled. The pistol slipped from his grip and fell with a clatter, metal skittering useless across the ground.
Above them, the rooftops loomed.
HeartEater raised his grappling hook, aimed it skyward, and fired.
The line shot out, caught purchase on a beam, and in a single fluid motion, he rose—vanishing like smoke on the wind.
He landed silently, crouching in the darkness. Below him, the courier staggered away into the distance, broken and afraid.
HeartEater watched.
The crates were decoys. The deliveries—a breadcrumb trail. Someone was pulling strings. Using civilians. Using innocents.
Mind control. Manufactured chaos. Corpses dressed in wires and orders.
And always—always—just far enough to avoid his claws.
He stared down at the dim alley below, jaw clenched behind his mask. The lights of the city flickered in the distance, and he felt her presence—not physical, but deliberate. The scent of her plans was all over this.
The woman in white.
He whispered, voice low and cold as iron:
"I'll find her. Even if she hides behind puppets... I'll carve my way through."
The night didn't answer.
So he moved, vanishing once more into its embrace.