Chapter 2: Dockside Shadows

The rain beat a relentless rhythm against the docklands, turning the sprawl of Old Detroit's waterfront into a shimmering maze of rust and shadow. Elias Voss moved through it, a silent specter beneath the jagged silhouettes of cranes clawing at the rift-scarred sky. His long black coat snapped in the wind, kevlar threads catching faint glints of sodium light from the pier's flickering lamps. The machete at his hip pulsed a soft blue, its runes alive with a quiet hum only he could feel. Under his arm, the suppressed SIG Sauer P320 rested snug, its weight a comfort against the chaos ahead. Pier 17 loomed in the distance—a hulking warehouse stained with salt and neglect, its edges swallowed by the storm.

Mira Kade trailed a step behind, her boots scuffing the wet concrete with a casual defiance that grated on Elias's nerves. She hadn't shut up since they left the diner, her voice cutting through the rain like a blade—plans, theories, jabs at his silence. "You think Shrike's waiting in there with a welcome mat?" she asked, flicking a spark of violet magic between her fingers. Elias didn't answer, his gray eyes fixed on the warehouse's outline. Words were a distraction, and he had no use for them now. The job was simple: find The Shrike's operation, gut it, and get answers. Mira could talk herself hoarse—he'd move when it mattered.

The pier came into view, a slab of industrial ruin ringed by rusted containers and broken pallets. Graffiti sprawled across the warehouse walls—jagged runes, gang tags, warnings in languages Elias didn't bother to read. The air carried the tang of saltwater and decay, laced with that same sulfur stink from the dealer's bag. Ghoul work, fresh and close. He crouched near a dented shipping container, its side stamped with faded Apex Corp branding, and scanned the loading bay ahead. Two figures stood guard—big, hooded, rifles slung low. One smoked, the ember glowing briefly under the rain's assault. Sloppy.

Mira sidled up, peering over his shoulder, her breath warm against the cold. "Subtle bunch," she muttered, voice low but edged with a grin. Elias didn't reply, just eased the SIG Sauer from its holster, checking the chamber with a flick of his wrist. The suppressor gleamed wet in the dim light. "Plan?" she asked, flexing her hands, magic crackling faintly like static. He tilted his head toward the guards, voice a flat rasp. "They die. We go in." Her smirk widened, the violet in her palms flaring brighter. "My kind of night."

He rose, moving with the storm's rhythm, a shadow blending into the rain. The guards didn't see him until it was too late. The smoker turned, ember dropping, but Elias's shot punched through his skull—a muffled thwip swallowed by the downpour. The body crumpled, rifle clattering. The second guard spun, fumbling for his radio, mouth opening to shout. Mira's hand snapped up, a violet arc lashing out like a whip. It seared through his chest, smoke curling from the wound as he dropped, twitching once before going still.

Elias stepped over the corpses, holstering the pistol with a smooth motion. "Quiet," he said, eyes on the warehouse. Mira shrugged, kicking the smoker's rifle aside. "Quiet enough." The loading bay door hung ajar, a sliver of harsh fluorescent light spilling out, buzzing like a trapped insect. Elias pushed through, machete drawn in a single fluid arc, its runes flaring brighter in the enclosed space. Mira followed, her boots thudding softly on the concrete, magic dimming to a faint shimmer. The warehouse yawned before them—a cavern of stacked crates, rusted machinery, and the thick scent of dust and blood.

He gestured Mira left with a curt nod, taking the right himself. She slipped into the shadows without a word, her presence fading into the gloom. Elias moved along a row of crates, each branded with Apex logos—stolen, repurposed, or a lie? His boot nudged something soft, and he glanced down—a ghoul's severed paw, jagged claws still dripping ichor onto the floor. Fresh kill, harvested hours ago. The Shrike wasn't peddling scraps; this was a machine, churning out something bigger. He pressed on, the hum of voices drifting from deeper within—low, urgent, clipped with tension.

"Move it—boss wants this loaded tonight," one barked, the words echoing off the metal walls. Elias eased around a stack of crates, peering through a gap. Three figures in tactical gear hauled a crate toward a truck parked at the far end, its engine idling. The crate rattled, something heavy and alive shifting inside. Shrike's crew—disciplined, armed, not the usual street trash. Elias gripped his machete tighter, the runes pulsing in time with his steady breath. Across the room, a faint pulse of violet light flickered—Mira's signal.

He stepped out, a tall shadow against the crates, runes blazing as he closed the distance. The nearest thug turned, eyes widening beneath a balaclava, but Elias was already there. The machete slashed through his throat, a clean arc that sprayed blood across the crate's wood. The second swung a rifle up, finger on the trigger, but Mira's magic hit first—a bolt of violet that shattered his arm at the elbow. He screamed, dropping the gun, and Elias finished him with a shot to the chest, the suppressor keeping it soft. The third broke for the truck, boots pounding. Elias threw the machete, its blade sinking into the man's calf and pinning him to the chassis. He crumpled, gasping, until Elias retrieved the weapon with a yank, silencing him with a twist of steel.

Mira emerged from the shadows, wiping a smear of ichor from her jacket with a grimace. "Subtle," she said, tossing his earlier word back at him with a mocking lilt. Elias wiped the machete on the corpse's sleeve, sheathing it with a click. "Results matter." She laughed, sharp and brief, then nodded at the crate. "What's he shipping?" Elias pried the lid open with the machete's edge, wood splintering under the force. Inside, a mass of writhing tendrils—black, slick, glistening—coiled around a jagged shard that pulsed with a faint, unearthly purple. A rift fragment, alive and unstable. His jaw tightened, the only sign of the cold anger flickering beneath his stoic mask. "Trouble."

The truck's engine roared to life, headlights slicing through the warehouse gloom. Elias spun, pistol up, aiming for the driver's silhouette, but the vehicle lurched forward, tires screeching on wet concrete as it barreled toward the bay door. Mira cursed, hurling a violet blast that scorched the rear bumper, metal warping under the heat, but the truck smashed through the exit, disappearing into the rain. Elias lowered his gun, staring after it, gray eyes narrowing. Mira kicked a crate, her smirk gone. "Shrike's slippery."