The rain had stopped, but Duskhaven never felt dry. It carried a permanent dampness in the air, like the city had soaked up too much blood and sorrow to ever be clean again.
Asher walked through the underbelly of the district, where the main roads turned to cracked stone and the buildings leaned against each other like weary survivors. People here didn't speak unless they had to, and even then, their voices were whispers sewn into the fabric of shadows.
He passed a man selling broken watches from a suitcase, a boy with oil-slicked skin offering hacked security chips from inside his coat, and a pair of sisters stitching barbed wire into the lining of leather jackets. No one made eye contact with him.
They knew better.
Asher wasn't feared because he was cruel. He was feared because he made monsters disappear—and in Duskhaven, most people had monsters living under their skin.
His destination wasn't far. An old warehouse that used to store dried fish but now smelled of solder, sweat, and the sharp tang of ozone. The outside bore no markings. Inside, though, it was alive.
The lights were dim, casting deep shadows that danced with every flicker. In one corner, a girl in torn jeans was testing an electric blade against a sheet of reinforced steel. Sparks hissed into the air. At a makeshift bar, a tall guy with a cybernetic eye poured something amber into a glass he never drank from. They all turned when Asher entered. Nobody spoke.
Then she walked in—from a side room, boot heels tapping, a quiet rhythm against the silence.
Zara.
Asher didn't move, but something behind his ribs tightened. He hated that. She always made him feel... almost.
She wore a deep blue jacket with the collar turned up and her silver hair pulled into a low braid. Her eyes were a smoky green, but they held too much clarity to ever be mistaken for soft.
"I saw what you did," she said, crossing her arms.
Asher didn't flinch. "You always see."
"That man," she continued, stepping closer. "He deserved it."
"That's not the point."
"Then what is? You looked like a goddamn ghost walking away from that alley."
His jaw clenched. He didn't want to talk about this. Not here. Not with eyes around them.
Zara saw it. She always did. So she stepped past him and gestured with her head. "Come on."
He followed her through the side door into a narrow hall lit only by strips of buzzing white light. The walls were patched with old graffiti and war maps, places marked with pins and scrawled notes: names, targets, debts.
Zara opened a door to a small office—bare bones except for a desk, two chairs, and a dusty vent fan that whirred like it might give out any second.
"Sit," she said.
He did.
She leaned against the desk and looked at him like she was measuring the weight of his soul. "How many now?"
"Four this week," he said quietly.
Her brow furrowed. "And how many good deeds to match that?"
He didn't answer.
Zara walked to a small safe and opened it with a palm scan. Inside were bundles of credit chips and a single, beat-up notebook. She tossed the notebook to him. He caught it without looking.
"You need to balance yourself, Asher. I know you think you can outrun the flaw, but you can't. And if you keep trying, it'll twist you into something worse than the people you punish."
"I'm fine."
She scoffed. "You're a lot of things. But fine isn't one of them."
He opened the notebook. Inside were lists. Names. Small, unnoticed kindnesses. Some were his. Most were hers. She'd been helping him since they met, even before she knew what he was. She didn't ask for thanks. She just did it.
"You never told me why you keep this," he said.
"Because you won't."
The silence stretched. A low rumble from the city below vibrated through the floor. Something distant and violent.
Asher closed the book and stood. "I'll find something. A balance."
"You better. Because I think something's coming. Something big. The air's different lately."
He turned to go.
"Asher."
He stopped.
"You don't have to carry it all alone. You know that, right?"
His voice was soft. "I don't know how to carry it any other way."
She didn't argue. Just watched him walk back into the shadows, the notebook still in his hand.
Scene 2: Part 2
The night hadn't cooled his blood. If anything, the quiet had made it boil harder.
Asher made his way to one of Duskhaven's abandoned subway tunnels—"abandoned" meaning nobody used it unless they wanted to disappear. Which was exactly what he needed tonight. Not to vanish, but to think.
His boots echoed through the hollow station, his reflection trailing in dirty puddles as he walked. Memories clawed their way back in.
The friend who killed her.
The betrayal.
Her eyes, wide and empty.
A sound broke through the silence—a laugh. Sharp. Sarcastic.
He stopped, back straightening.
From the shadows emerged a young man wearing a long red coat over tactical gear, messy black hair, and an ever-present grin that screamed chaos.
"I always know where to find you when you're brooding," said the newcomer.
Asher sighed. "Rafe."
Rafe tossed a metal disk into the air and caught it. "You looked like you needed company. Or a punch. I wasn't sure which."
Asher didn't answer. He just kept walking. Rafe fell in beside him.
"You know Zara's worried about you. And when Zara worries, she makes us do things. Like moral recon missions."
"I'm fine."
"Said the guy with murder in his eyes."
They turned a corner, heading deeper into the tunnels. Faint graffiti lit up under ultraviolet strips. Symbols of gangs. Old resistance marks. Names crossed out. Blood signatures.
"You ever wonder," Rafe said, kicking a stone, "if maybe your gift isn't just about justice? Maybe it's about guilt. Maybe your flaw isn't Justice. Maybe it's Regret."
Asher stopped walking.
Rafe's grin faded.
"Sorry," he added. "Too far?"
"No. Just... truer than I wanted it to be."
They stood there, two shadows in a city of ghosts.
Above them, thunder rolled. Below, the hum of something ancient stirred behind rusted gates.
Something was coming.
And Asher could feel it.