Continuing Shadows

"I can't... they'll kill me."

The sudden downpour hammered against windows and pavement, washing grime from one surface to another.

The Wraith pushed his hand a fraction deeper. Mercer gasped in pain. "And what do you think I'll do?" There was a weight to the statement that belied its simplicity.

"It's called Pandora," Mercer choked out. "A new strain. Permanent bonding with compatible hosts." With power-hungry precision, Captain Mercer aggressive stance.

 "Permanent?" Behind the professional demeanor, genuine concern flickered briefly.

The Wraith's voice betrayed a hint of surprise. All known forms of Oblivion Dust required regular dosing to maintain their effects. A permanent strain would change everything. Was he losing his grip on reality?

"The binding agent... it rewrites DNA completely. No degradation, no need for boosters."

"And the 60% mortality rate?" His words said one thing, but his eyes told another story.

Mercer's laugh was hollow. "Acceptable losses. The ones who survive... they're something else. Stronger. More stable."

"Who authorized this?"

"Above my pay grade. But the orders came from the top. Syndicate Tower, executive level." The casual tone couldn't mask the tension underneath.

The Wraith absorbed this information, his mind racing. A permanent Dust strain would give the Syndicate unprecedented power. They could create an army of enhanced enforcers without the drawbacks of addiction or deterioration. And if they were targeting the Underground. His vision blurred at the edges, reality seeming to ripple as the Dust took effect.

A noise behind him broke his concentration. The lab woman had managed to reach the breaker panel. The lights flickered back on, momentarily blinding him. In that instant of distraction, Mercer made his move with precision. He pulled a concealed Nullsteel knife from his boot and slashed at the Wraith's arm.

The blade connected, slicing through the coat and into flesh. The cold burn of molecular disruption spread across his skin as he pushed through the solid barrier. The Wraith hissed in pain, his concentration breaking. The shadow tendrils dissipated, freeing Mercer.

The immediate danger had passed, but he knew the repercussions were just beginning. "Not so ghostly now, are you?"

Mercer taunted, advancing with the knife.

The Wraith backed away, blood seeping from the wound. The cut wasn't deep, but it burned like fire, the Nullsteel disrupting the Dust in his system. He needed to end this quickly. Scanning rooms for exits, Elias continued as Mira spoke, with his distant gaze. Time compressed into a blur of motion and reaction.

He feinted left, then phased through the floor, reappearing behind Mercer. The narrow corridor limited movement, forcing a direct confrontation. Before the captain could turn, the Wraith struck a precise blow to the back of the head that sent Mercer crashing to the ground, unconscious. With power-hungry precision, Captain Mercer's aggressive stance.

The lab woman was making a run for the exit, the case clutched to her chest. The Wraith considered pursuing her but decided against it. He was injured, and his time was running out. Better to secure what information he could and retreat.

The immediate danger had passed, but he knew the repercussions were just beginning. He knelt beside Mercer, searching his pockets. A keycard, a communicator, and there was a flash dick that looked like a data drive. He pocketed it, then turned his attention to the injection guns still on the table. He took one, examining it briefly before tucking it into his belt.

Evidence. Proof of what the Syndicate was planning.

A siren wailed in the distance, Syndicate security responding to the alarm that had undoubtedly been triggered. The Wraith moved quickly, gathering the unconscious guards and dragging them to the center of the warehouse. The world narrowed to a series of split-second decisions.. He arranged them in a circle, their bodies forming a crude but unmistakable pattern.

 His calling card.

From his belt, he took a small vial of white paint and dipped his left hand into it. Then he pressed his palm against the floor in the center of the circle, leaving a perfect handprint with no fingerprints.

Let them know who had been here. Let them feel the fear that they had inflicted on so many others.

The Wraith straightened, wincing at the pain in his arm. He kept his back to the wall, maintaining sight lines to both entrances. The wound was still bleeding, but not badly. He'd tend to it once he was safe, a habit that revealed his strategic nature. For now, he needed to move.

As he phased, the world became ghostly and transparent, sounds muffled as if underwater.. Outside, the night air was thick with smog, but he could see the flashing lights of Syndicate vehicles approaching. If he were discovered now, his entire operation would be compromised. Time compressed into a blur of motion and reaction. Time to disappear. Each breath burned in his lungs as he pushed himself faster..

 The Wraith moved across the rooftops of the Lower Districts, a shadow among shadows. His mind was racing with the implications of what he'd discovered. Pandora. A permanent Dust strain. A weapon aimed at the Underground He strained to hear past street performances..

He needed to warn them. But that would mean breaking his self-imposed isolation, reaching out to people he'd deliberately avoided. The Underground was a loose coalition of rebels, hackers, and Dustborne outcasts all fighting against the Syndicate in their own ways.

The Wraith had always operated alone, preferring to keep his distance from their organized resistance. The familiar cold sensation spread from the injection site, bringing both pain and power.. The impact sent vibrations up his arm, teeth rattling with the force..

 As the adrenaline ebbed, the consequences of what he'd done began to sink in. But this was bigger than his preference for solitude. If the Syndicate deployed Pandora against the Underground, it would be a massacre.

As he reached the edge of the district, the Wraith paused, looking back at the warehouse. Syndicate enforcers were swarming the building now, their vehicles forming a perimeter. He'd struck a blow tonight, disrupted their operation, but it was a temporary setback at best. The Syndicate would adapt, increase security, and move their research elsewhere.

The war continued.

He touched the wound on his arm, feeling the sticky warmth of blood. The Nullsteel had done more damage than he'd initially thought, not just to his flesh, but to the Dust in his system. He could feel his powers weakening, the edges of his right hand beginning to fade again. His skin tingled where the transformation began, molecules vibrating between states of matter..

He needed to get home as he needed another dose.

The Wraith turned away from the scene and continued his journey across the rooftops. The night wasn't over yet. Time seemed to slow as the Dust activated, sounds becoming distant and colors intensifying.. He still had to analyze the data drive, tend to his wound, and plan his next move The Dust was changing him, but was it making him less human or more?.*

And somewhere in the back of his mind, a small voice whispered.

"Daddy? Are you hurt?" Her laughter held an edge of desperation.

"I'm fine, Mira," he murmured, though he knew the voice wasn't real. Couldn't be real. "Just a scratch." What remained unsaid hung between them like a physical presence.

"You should be more careful. The bad men have new toys."

The Wraith didn't respond. The hallucinations were getting more frequent, more coherent. Another side effect of the Dust, or perhaps of his own fractured psyche. Either way, he couldn't afford to indulge them. Not now. His skin tingled where the transformation began, molecules vibrating between states of matter.

He had work to do. The Syndicate had escalated the game, and he needed to respond in kind.

The shadow war for Ironhaven's soul had just begun. The narrow corridor limited movement, forcing a direct confrontation.

***

Any Kind of Engagement is appreciated.