| Shadows and Secrets

༺ The Fractured City IV ༻

The man lay on the hard cement ground as the heavy rain fell, washing away the blood that trickled from his wounds. His breath came in slow, ragged gasps. Thunder cracked overhead, the sky splitting in flashes of blinding white, casting the narrow alleyway in eerie flickers of light and shadow. His eyes were blank—staring at nothing, seeing nothing.

Rowan kneeled there, unmoving. His hands trembled slightly, rainwater running down his fingers like rivulets of silver. He felt the cold press of the pavement beneath him, the weight of failure sitting heavy on his shoulders. His mind replayed the fight in fragments—steel clashing against steel, footwork slipping in the downpour, the cold efficiency of his opponents.

He clenched his jaw. Then, slowly, he tried to rise. His legs buckled almost immediately, sending him crashing against the dumpster beside him. His body leaned against it, one arm draped over the rusted metal to support himself. The alley stank of rot, the filth of the city pooling in dark corners, yet Rowan barely noticed.

Lightning illuminated his face for a brief second. His expression was blank, but his mind was already at work. He had no time to drown in frustration. The old man had been taken. And Rowan was still alive. That meant he still had a chance.

The city stretched before him like a labyrinth—twisting streets, slanted rooftops, alleys that led to nowhere. He had no name, no lead, only a sense that the organization had to have a place to regroup. Somewhere hidden. Somewhere that wouldn't attract attention.

He pushed himself off the dumpster, took a breath, and climbed. His fingers found the grooves between the bricks, his boots pressing against the uneven wall, and in a few swift movements, he was on the rooftops once more.

The rain had driven most people indoors, but a few stragglers still walked the streets below, hunched beneath cloaks, their steps hurried. Rowan's gaze swept over the city, searching. Watching.

Then he saw him.

A man, walking alone, shoulders stiff, head low. Too deliberate. Too aware of his surroundings. He wasn't simply moving through the streets—he was checking for something. Or someone.

Rowan didn't hesitate.

He followed.

The pursuit was silent. Rowan's footsteps never touched the ground, never disturbed a single puddle. He kept to the rooftops, tracking the man with a predator's patience. The rain masked the sound of his movements, and the darkness cloaked his form.

The man moved toward the quieter parts of the district, avoiding the busier roads, sticking to side streets and narrow passageways.

Perfect.

Rowan anticipated his route. He took a different path, descending a side wall and slipping into the maze of alleys. The man continued forward, unaware, his boots clicking softly against the wet stone.

Then Rowan moved.

A single, precise jump from the shadows of the rooftops. His feet met the ground without a sound.

The man took another step. Then stopped.

A shift in the air. A presence.

Slowly, he turned.

"Who's there?" His voice wavered, barely audible over the storm.

Rowan said nothing. He remained in the dark, just beyond the reach of the dim streetlight. His face was hidden, his clothes barely visible, drenched and blending into the night.

The man stepped forward instinctively, into the light, his figure now fully exposed. He was younger than Rowan expected, perhaps in his early thirties, with sharp features worn by exhaustion. His coat was thick, yet soaked through, the collar pulled up as if to shield him from more than just the rain.

Rowan's voice cut through the silence. Cold. Sharp. Calculated.

"Do you know where you're going?"

The man flinched. His eyes darted across the alley, searching for the source. But Rowan didn't move. Didn't make a sound.

"I don't know what you mean," the man said cautiously.

"Lying is a terrible habit," Rowan mused. "Especially when you're already afraid."

"I'm not afraid," the man muttered.

Rowan tilted his head. "No? Then why are your fingers trembling?"

The man looked down. His hands were clenched into fists, but his knuckles were white, his breath uneven.

Rowan stepped forward, just enough for the faintest outline of his figure to become visible. Not enough to be seen—only enough to be felt.

"You work with them," Rowan said. "That much is clear."

The man stiffened. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Rowan chuckled softly, though there was no warmth in it. "You're a terrible liar."

The man took half a step back. "What do you want?"

"You know something," Rowan replied, his tone never shifting. Never rising. "And I want you to tell me."

"I don't know anything."

"Really?" Rowan's voice was almost amused. "Then why are you so scared?"

The man's lips pressed into a thin line. He said nothing.

Rowan exhaled. Then took another step forward.

"You saw something you weren't supposed to."

The man didn't respond.

"They told you not to look, didn't they?" Rowan continued. "Told you to keep your head down. But curiosity is a dangerous thing."

The man swallowed. His breath hitched.

Rowan observed everything. The way his shoulders tensed. The way his eyes flicked slightly to the side, as if considering escape. No. Not considering escape. Recalling a memory.

The answer was already there. Rowan just had to pull it out.

"You looked," Rowan said. His voice was barely above a whisper. "And now you know where they went."

The man's breathing quickened.

Rowan watched. Waited. And then delivered the final blow.

"If you didn't, they wouldn't have told you they'd put you on a list."

The man flinched violently.

Got you.

"How—" His voice caught in his throat.

"How do I know?" Rowan finished for him. "Because I've been watching them longer than you have."

Silence.

The rain poured. The thunder rolled. The man finally exhaled, his shoulders sagging, defeat settling in his bones.

"They're meeting at the docks," he muttered.

Rowan nodded. "When?"

"Tonight."

Rowan tilted his head slightly, as if considering. Then, without another word, he stepped back, fading into the shadows once more.

The man remained standing under the flickering streetlight, rain pooling around his boots. His fists clenched at his sides, his gaze lost in the distance.

His thoughts drifted—back to that moment, back to Elias Verholt.

Back to the kind doctor who had died for his mistake.

He had taken a single glance. A single peek. And because of that, Elias had been killed in cold blood. The city had mourned him. People still spoke his name with sorrow.

But they would never know the truth.

And now… neither would Rowan.

The man swallowed the lump in his throat, turning away. He was already walking a thin line. If he wasn't careful, he would be next