The cigar smoldered between Lucas's fingers, its ember pulsing dull orange in the dim light. Smoke curled, thick and slow, blending into the hush of conversation around him.
Here, words were spoken carefully, weighted, traded like currency. No one looked at him directly, but they noticed. That was enough. A place like this—no signs, no name on the outside—existed on reputation alone. If you were here, you already knew.
Lucas took another drag. Somewhere behind him, a man laughed too hard, covering nerves with noise. Another poured aged whiskey in quiet agreement. Power moved through the room like a second language, understood without being spoken.
Casa Nocturna.
The walls had soaked in too many secrets, too many deals made in half-lit corners. The kind of place that remembered. The kind of place that acknowledged.
A light flickered—just for a second—as he exhaled smoke. Victor slid into the seat across from him. Movements deliberate. Careful. He wasn't a man who showed nerves easily, but Lucas caught the tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders held just a little too firm.
"It's begun."
Lucas flicked ash into the tray, voice steady. "Your man's in position?"
Victor nodded once. "James is meeting the contact now. Said the guy insisted on the location. Didn't like that."
Lucas leaned back, watching the ember fade and glow. Didn't need to be there. The alley had already made up its mind.
James moved like a man who knew eyes were on him. He didn't turn his head, didn't check the shadows. But Lucas saw it anyway—in the way his shoulders held tight beneath his coat.
Lucas observed through Victor, listening in through the earpiece. James's voice came steady, professional—unshaken. He wasn't new to this.
The contact was already waiting. A wiry man, unnaturally still. Too at ease. That sharp grin stretched wide, but his eyes—too eager, too expectant—gave him away. He wasn't afraid.
He should have been.
The exchange began. Words, an envelope passed. James played his part, giving nothing away. But that overconfident fool dragged it out, savoring the moment like he had already won.
Then—a break in the rhythm.
A breath where there shouldn't be one. A flicker of movement in the reflection of a rain-slicked puddle.
Too late.
A quiet hum beneath his feet, the weight of something pressing in. Then they emerged—silent, deliberate. Not men stepping forward, but figures peeling away from the darkness itself.
The trap was set. The pieces were already in motion.
The man's grin widened. Maybe he thought his work was done, that his name would be carved into legend.
Lucas didn't spare Victor a glance. He turned and started moving.
Behind him, Victor's men peeled off.
Hollow Steps.
The name had been dropped moments before. Slipped into the conversation like an afterthought. A breadcrumb for the desperate.
Lucas knew better.
The Whispered stirred—just a flicker, just a moment of pressure behind his thoughts.
Follow the missing footsteps. James was the play. The one they needed to fall.
Lucas was already moving.
With every step, the alley darkened. The weight of the moment grew heavier. The air thickened. The rain, constant and steady, seemed to dampen—just for a second, just long enough to notice.
A streetlamp flickered, but never fully died. It was never about escape.
By the time they realized, the world had already shifted.
Too late.
Hollow Steps had gone silent. Not the 'too quiet' of an ambush—worse. The kind of quiet that meant it was already over.
Victor's men moved with precision, sweeping through alleys and doorways, clearing corners with disciplined efficiency. Their breathing was steady, their weapons drawn. Their movements were sharp, trained and completely unnecessary—watched through the cold, unblinking eye of a camera, where Victor observed in silence.
Nothing moved. No watching eyes. No hurried steps retreating into darkness. Not an ambush. Not even a trace.
Silence, thick and absolute.
Victor's frown deepened. Where were the sounds of the hunted? The shuffle of someone too slow to run, the ragged breaths of those too scared to fight? There should have been something. But the streets swallowed every noise like a body sinking into black water.
Lucas never followed. He moved in the opposite direction—toward James. Slow. Unhurried.
Because he already knew.
A shift in the air. Not a sound. Not a shadow. Just a weight settling over his thoughts like a cold hand pressing against his spine.
The Whispered stirred. No words. Just pressure.
He's close.
Victor exhaled sharply as his men continued clearing empty spaces. The tension shifted. This wasn't the charged anticipation of a fight waiting to break loose. It was worse.
Realization.
This was never the battlefield.
A false lead.
The false lead wasn't meant to kill them. It was meant to waste their time.
Victor's hands clenched. He looked over his shoulder. Lucas was already gone.
And then—Lucas felt it.
Not a sound. Not a sight. A missing step.He didn't hear the creak of a door settling, didn't hear the scuff of a misplaced foot. Didn't hear the last breath of something that should have exhaled.
Predator's instinct.
A silence too deep. The kind that wasn't natural. The kind that swallowed everything around it. No echo. No life. Just absence. The air pressed down, thick—not like humidity, not like heat. Something else.
A presence. Waiting.
Watching.
Lucas didn't react. Didn't slow. His pulse stayed steady.
But whatever was in the dark ahead of him—it knew he was coming.
END OF CHAPTER 3