Shadows and Blood

The narrow alley was eerily quiet, the kind of silence that made Ghost's skin crawl. The only sounds were his own cautious footsteps and the distant hum of a flickering streetlight. His heart raced as he scanned the dim surroundings, gripping his weapon tightly. Where are you, Shadow? he thought, the tension knotting in his chest.

Suddenly, the sharp crack of a gunshot split the silence. The bullet whizzed past his ear, so close he felt the air ripple against his skin. He ducked instinctively, hitting the ground hard and rolling behind a stack of rusted barrels.

"Damn it!" Ghost hissed under his breath. His ears rang from the close call, but his training kicked in. He peeked over the edge of the barrel, scanning for the shooter.

What he saw made his stomach churn. Three bodies lay sprawled in the dimly lit room above, visible through a shattered window. Blood dripped slowly from the edge of the glass, pooling on the sill before dripping to the alley below. A shadow moved in the room—silent, calculated.

"Shadow!" Ghost hissed, keeping his voice low but firm. He crept closer, his boots barely making a sound on the concrete.

The shadow shifted again, stepping into the light. It was him—Shadow. His dark figure loomed near the broken window, his weapon still drawn, his face unreadable.

"They were going to shoot you," Shadow said coldly, his voice devoid of emotion. "Have you not seen that?"

Ghost felt a shiver run down his spine. Shadow's calm demeanor was unnerving, as always. It wasn't just that he was heartless—it was the precision in his actions, the way he made killing seem like a natural reflex.

"Yeah, well," Ghost muttered, trying to shake off the chill, "a little heads-up would've been nice before you went full assassin mode." He gestured toward the bodies with a flick of his hand.

Shadow didn't respond. He simply stepped back into the shadows, as if merging with the darkness itself. Ghost sighed, a mix of relief and frustration. No wonder they call him Shadow.