CHAPTER 1055: PROSE AND PESTILENCE.

Cain stood on the roof of a half-collapsed tenement, his coat flayed open by the night wind. The city stretched beneath him, trembling under the pulse of neon and smog. Lights flickered sporadically in the broken districts, as if the city itself was breathing shallow, uneven breaths.

Susan emerged from below, climbing the iron ladder until her boots scraped against the tarred rooftop. She didn’t speak immediately. Instead, she leaned against the cracked ledge, her eyes tracing the horizon where towers clawed the sky.

"They’ve started whispering," she said finally. "Merchants in the south quarter claim they saw something—your shadow, they called it—dragging bodies into the drains."

Cain didn’t respond. His eyes swept the expanse, landing on a cluster of distant lights where City Z’s central grid pulsed faintly. His silence pressed on Susan, but she didn’t flinch. She’d grown used to it.

Hunter arrived next, vaulting the gap between buildings without a sound. He landed with the poise of a beast, his crossbow strapped and ready. "They’re not whispers," he said flatly. "They’re signals. Someone wants panic."

Cain’s jaw tightened. He knew the truth in Hunter’s words. Shadows weren’t only stalking the alleys; they were shaping the city’s fear into weapons.

From the north, Steve’s voice filtered through the comm bead in Cain’s ear, a crackle of static followed by clipped urgency. "New feed just opened. Grid’s flagged irregularities in Zone Twelve. Seventeen seconds of black-out in their cameras. Guess what showed up in frame once they booted back?"

Cain didn’t ask. He already knew.

"Tall," Steve continued, "wrong joints, eyes like glass shards. Phantom’s playing near the surface now. They’re testing our reach."

Susan cursed under her breath. Hunter only adjusted his grip on the bowstring.

Cain finally spoke, his voice measured, even. "Zone Twelve. That’s close to the river market. Too many people." He turned, stepping down from the ledge, the decision already carved in stone. "We move now."

They crossed the rooftops swiftly, their path an unbroken rhythm of leaps and shadows. Cain led with the precision of someone who had already mapped each angle. Susan’s cloak snapped like a banner in the wind, Hunter trailing as a silent blade, while Steve’s voice guided them through the fractured circuit lines of the city grid.

By the time they reached Zone Twelve, dawn was fading into pale daybreak. The market was still alive, but wrong—stalls left half-open, food trampled, silence crouched where sound should have thrived.

Cain felt it before he saw it: the distortion in the air, the ripple like heat haze bending reality. Then it emerged from between two stalls, its limbs unfurling in insect-like precision. Its head tilted, catching fragments of light on eyes that were more mirror than flesh.

People nearby froze. A child whimpered. The creature didn’t lunge—yet. It only stood, studying, waiting.

Cain stepped forward, blade already drawn. "Get them out," he said without looking back.

Susan moved instantly, voice sharp and commanding as she herded the civilians toward alleys that Hunter had already secured. Steve piped directions through the comm, rerouting city drones to provide cover.

That left Cain alone with the phantom.

The creature’s arm twitched, then fractured outward like a splitting tree, each shard turning into a jagged spear of bone-like material. Cain didn’t wait. He lunged, steel ringing out as it bit against the first spike. Sparks showered. The phantom recoiled, not from pain but from the recognition of resistance.

It countered, limbs weaving in impossible arcs. Cain’s blade met each strike, his movements precise, ruthless. The clash drove fissures into the market stones, stalls splintering beneath the weight of blows.

Above, Susan glanced back only once, her hand tightening on her weapon. Hunter stopped her with a gesture. "He doesn’t need saving," he said. "Not yet."

The phantom surged, splitting its form into shifting silhouettes, three bodies where one had been. Cain narrowed his eyes, tracking the rhythm, the lag between copies. He struck once, clean, and the first illusion burst like ash in the wind. The second faltered under his blade, leaving only the true body, its mirrored eyes burning cold.

It hissed, a sound like broken glass sliding across steel. Cain pressed forward, unrelenting. His blade carved a line across its torso, ichor spilling black and glistening, staining the market stones.

The phantom staggered back, limbs folding unnaturally as it retreated into the shadow of an abandoned stall. It did not scream, nor die. It only watched.

Cain did not pursue. He wiped the ichor from his blade and spoke into the comm. "Pull the civilians back further. It won’t be the last one."

Steve’s voice cut in, tight with unease. "Not just one, Cain. I’ve got three more pings across the district. Looks like our phantom just opened the gates."

The market held its breath. Cain’s eyes lifted toward the rooftops where Susan and Hunter regrouped. His grip on the sword tightened, not in fear, but in acknowledgment.

This was no longer a hunt. It was the opening of a siege.

The first scream split the market before Cain could answer. It came from the far end, where a second phantom had slipped free from the drain grates, limbs slick with filth and smoke. Susan didn’t hesitate; she vaulted down, her blade flashing in an arc of cold silver.

Hunter followed, landing with a heavy thud, crossbow leveled. His first shot hissed through the phantom’s wrist, pinning it against a shattered post. The creature writhed, twisting in angles that mocked bone and sinew, then tore free with a wet crack.

Cain moved toward them, his steps calm, controlled, but his eyes betrayed the storm rising inside him. He could already feel it—the rhythm of invasion, the precision of something orchestrated. This wasn’t chaos. It was choreography.

Over the comm, Steve cursed. "Two more, rooftop level. They’re not random. They’re circling you, Cain. Herding you into a collapse."

Cain finally looked up. The sky above City Z was still pale, dawn barely risen, but against the weak light two figures crouched on the ledges, their eyes burning with mirrored fire.

He exhaled once, steadying himself. Then he whispered, almost to the city itself:

"Let them come."