A zone of silence separated That world from This reality. It still looked like a regular neighborhood on paper, but calling it normal required Olympic- level mental gymnastics. No stray cats or dogs prowled the streets like they usually do in rundown areas.
Even birds didn't dare land here in their eternal hunt for snacks. They seemed to understand that in this neck of the woods, they could easily become the snacks.
Every building, from high-rise apartments to single-story shacks, was wrapped in darkness. As soon as the sun dipped, people shut off the lights and pulled the curtains tight, hoping the night predators wouldn't drop by for tea. Though, to be fair to those nasty creatures, they rarely bothered breaking into houses. Maybe they just weren't fans of cardio or staircases.
Anyway, enough jokes. I dropped onto the cobblestone and let my legs solidify again. All my senses were on max alert, but I didn't need to switch to Dark Sight yet—I could still see fine, thanks to a rare burst of generosity from the Municipality.
Sure, the City Council usually pinched pennies like gremlins on a budget, but for once they hadn't skimmed off the top. The streetlights were blazing bright, exposing every shadow and corner.
For some reason, the Council thought streetlights would scare Them away
—which was, of course, delusional. They wouldn't care even if the moon was replaced with a disco ball.
It was still well-lit where I stood, but I hadn't yet reached the alleyway I was headed for—one where streetlight fingers didn't dare crawl. My short hair would've probably started sweating from the tension, if I even had such an annoying human trait. But man, how those lime-green strands shimmered under the lamps! Totally worth hunting down that epic hair tonic. And now that ombré was back in style, my new shade looked like it was made just for me... okay, I'm getting distracted.
Even though the cold was brutal enough to freeze lava, I didn't shiver. On the contrary, I cracked open my faux-leather jacket a little, ready to grab stuff from the secret pockets when needed. I also checked the tension wires holding my stilettos—those babies were strapped inside the sleeves.
These blades were about the size of classic daggers and made of... aluminum. For some mysterious reason, that lame, non-noble metal absolutely pissed off the physical beasts from that pack. Aluminum wasn't great at slicing flesh, sadly, so my late friend—also Antwan's mom and a badass blacksmith—used to make me fresh batches on the regular. Since she passed, I'd been stuck with the stash she left behind.
But those weren't even my main weapon. And neither were the -fangs- made from the same metal that decorated my knees and elbows. My real, one-of-a-kind weapon... was me.
The alley reeked. Like someone had dumped a truckload of rotting trash, even though I knew only a handful of people lived here and barely made any mess.
Still, signs of normal human life clashed with that logic: parked bikes and cars, a forgotten brand-new doll, little piles of pet food. It was like the street was trying to lull me into comfort. Not gonna happen!
I wasn't in the mood for long dramatic greetings tonight. I took a loud breath and blew out a strong gust of air that spun like a tiny whirlwind and shot down the alley. That breeze would help any lurking nasties zero in on me and come running for some tender human meat. Not that I'd be much of a snack—I was as scrawny as my late friend Lacey always used to say.
I plopped down on a bench, stretched out my worn-out legs, and quietly dreamed of a relaxing massage from some cute dude. Maybe I could kill some time on a dating app while waiting for Them to show up? Yeah, let's do that.
I was just about to scroll through a sea of profiles when—bam—I felt a chill run through me. A pleasant chill, mind you, despite it already being a freezing December night. Welp. Classic sign: -clients- incoming.
Too bad that was all I got. One creepy vibe and then... nothing. No follow- up, no confirmation. I started thinking maybe this whole thing was a false alarm. Mia's drone might've just caught some random people. Or animals. It wouldn't be the first time.
I turned toward the street, casually walking toward a distant house, when I heard a soft rustle behind me. I didn't turn around. Spooking the follower would only make them hide. Unfortunately, my little trick didn't work—the rustle didn't repeat. I made it to the edge of this urban swamp, stepped back into the light, and let out a small, disappointed sigh.
And then a garbage can launched itself at me. With fangs. Like, full-on leaping, snarling, steel-jawed trash bin.
I nearly missed the jump. If not for my enhanced reflexes in Dreamwalker mode, I'd be halfway digested inside a recycling container right now.
Maybe it thought it was doing Mother Nature a favor. Though... am I really
that toxic?
Time to hit back. I leapt too, launching one of my stilettos at the thing's side. It scraped harmlessly off the metal and clattered away. First hit— complete fail. And now I was down to one blade. I didn't carry guns—not out of principle, but because the creatures couldn't care less about bullets of any caliber.
The bin monster bounced along the cobblestones, making an ungodly racket as it went, its freakishly long tongue dripping with goo. I dodged every strike, and at one point, even managed to grab the tongue mid-snap. A thick slime oozed over my glove, sizzling the material. It flooded into the hole it burned through, forming a tiny lake on my palm... and that was it. Weak move, trash-boy.
Strike. Dodge. Strike again. The tongue kept swiping at me, now trying to wrap around my body—guess even the monster's peanut brain figured out that its slime wasn't gonna cut it. Meanwhile, I wasn't just twirling around for show—I was prepping my own attack.
I focused on building up extra mass in my arm to give it the strength of a steel pipe, planning to slice the beast in half with a single blow. But just as I was about to go full Mortal Kombat, the bin monster spun into the air and launched itself at me like some twisted meteor.
Gotta say—I kinda botched this part. It smacked me right in the temple. Black blood trickled down my face. I licked it off instinctively, rolled it around in my mouth, and formed a tight little ball. Then I grabbed it, and chucked that sucker straight at the trash beast.
Bullseye.
The garbage bin didn't even see the throw coming (seriously though—what does it see with?), and when the capsule hit, it burst open. Boom! Thick, black goo wrapped around the beast, not only giving it a lovely makeover, but also paralyzing the sucker.
The bin dropped to the ground, flailed a bit for show, then gave up and just slumped over like a sack of shame. That's it, amigo.
I rubbed my hands together in satisfaction and patted the metal belly of my little trash prince. Lie there, sweetheart. I'm about to melt you into oblivion
—won't even leave crumbs behind. -Alive- is not what my employers are paying for.
Oh, and yeah—forgot to mention I was recording the whole thing with my visual cam, just like I planned. The footage got saved, following proper protocol. Gonna archive that beauty for later.
Out of my jacket's endless pockets came a metal flask, half-full of the good stuff. A spicy little cocktail cooked up by our brave city defenders— designed to ignite anything, living or otherwise.
Just as the first drop was about to kiss the twitching beast, another wave of cold washed over my skin. But this time? It hit like a full-on arctic punch to the face.
And then... they arrived.
From the far end of the street came a whole squad of garbage-gobblers, all shapes and sizes. One thing they had in common? Giant maws, dripping tongues, and a strong shared desire to murder me on sight.
They clattered and banged toward me like a thousand rabid hippos. One, two, three... I lost count and gave up trying. Instead, I slipped into combat trance mode, started doing some quick passes with my hands (no, I wasn't casting spells!).
A ripple rolled down my arms—they thinned out, bent at unnatural angles, and lit up with ghostly flame. I carefully pumped each limb full of enemy- shredding ectoplasm.
Alright, trashballs. Time to play some freakin' bowling.
I peeled a chunk off my new arm, squished it into a ball, and launched a test throw. It went nowhere, splashed against a wall, and fizzled. Ectoplasm only works on certain things—it wouldn't hurt a regular building.
But then—bam! Direct hit. That shot landed right in the gooey bullseye. Three monsters got wrapped in sticky sludge and started to decay on the spot.
Bon appétit, my little rotcakes. Another four bins bit the dust.
The remaining cans, seeing their buddies get turned into soup, kicked it into high gear. They suddenly switched up strategy—like frickin' cheerleaders, they started launching each other toward me in massive leaps.
I dodged each one with style, but one of those sneaky bastards flicked its tongue out and wrapped it around my leg.
I dropped to one knee, hard. The bastards saw that and got hyped—charging me like they were in a group discount at Rage Room.
Curled in pain, I channeled everything I had into my hands. The -Dragon Strike- was ready. I slammed both palms into the first trash beast that got too close. It crumpled like a soda can. The next few met the same fate.
My energy was draining fast. Way too fast. I realized I'd blown way too much juice on such worthless opponents. When I cut the glow from my hands and tried boosting ectoplasm production to recover—big mistake.
One last bin took advantage of my delay.
And man, you should've seen that takeoff! It spun mid-air, repeating that first bin's tornado move—but three times faster—and launched itself at my head.
I barely dodged in time. Still got clipped in the same temple that was already messed up. My vision blurred from the pain.
Instinct kicked in. I dumped the entire flask on that metal freak without a second thought.
It ignited instantly. Roared up into a crackling bonfire that'd make any tourist say, -Wow, is this a Christmas event?-
It took me a sec to realize two very dumb things:
One — I'd been fighting this whole time with the flask still in my hand, never tossed it back into my pocket.
Two — now it was empty. Every last drop, gone.
And if you don't torch the monsters from beyond the Wall? They recover. Fast. And they'll be back, badder and slimier than before.
I stared at the mess around me, totally dumbfounded. My brain was racing through a thousand bad ideas, until one finally stuck.
Screw the rules—I was gonna be a bad citizen for once.
I'd chuck all these trashbags beyond the Wall like expired yogurt. Sure, it wouldn't solve the problem—they'd crawl back eventually—but I'd buy myself time. Time to grab fresh supplies... or, if I was feeling generous, spend some actual power to nuke them.
I heard the distinct sound of hands clapping behind me. Applause? Here?!
Not far off, next to a small truck, stood a pair: a tall, fit man and a petite girl
with long curly hair. Hanging from her neck was a cord with a sleek, vintage-style professional camera.
The guy was rocking a long trench coat with a high collar and fancy Oxford shoes with heavy heels. That's about all I had time to register—because guess what? Life threw in another surprise act.
Boom. Boom. The asphalt trembled with each massive slap like someone beating war drums. Snow toppled from rooftops and car hoods, falling in sync with the thunderous steps.
That's when I finally switched to Dark Sight and saw the world with altered vision. Everything shimmered with chaotic energy, flashing in bursts of color and form. But to a normal bystander? It just looked like... a huge industrial dumpster.
But what a dumpster!
Lumbering toward me with royal swagger came the King of All Trashcans, rocking a mouth the size of a bus filled with iron fangs, and a tongue— okay, cable—whipping the ground like something from a BDSM nightmare.
Yeah, nope. Not the kind of foreplay I signed up for.
I should've paused, regrouped, planned better after all my recent screwups. But nah. I charged at the junk titan like danger was my idea of a cuddle session. Real smart, girl.
Before the cord-tongue could whip me across the shoulder, I poured the last scraps of ectoplasm into my system and pulled off a Trickster's Move. If it didn't work? I was toast. No time to recharge.
My body warped and shrunk into an unnatural, barrel-like shape— mimicking the form of one of those smaller trash fiends I'd fought earlier. The big boy hesitated, tongue retreating in confusion. What he saw was one of his –own, - standing before him.
The transformation drained the hell out of me—I was ready to stick my tongue out and pass out on the spot.
We stood there for a few long seconds: me recovering, him in total confusion. Just enough time for me to channel my final drop of energy into my left hand (right one was outta juice—good thing I'm a natural lefty).
That hand, full of vengeance, I jammed straight into the metal side of the dumpster king.
Nope, I didn't metaphysically destroy his Essence in the astral plane— didn't have the power for that tonight. I just went caveman on his shell. Five solid punches into the weak spot I made, and he backed off a bit, cooling his jets.
And again... applause. Oh, right.
I'd forgotten about the fanclub chilling by the truck. Great.
I had to knock them out and ship them off for a quick memory wipe at the station. They'd seen way too much. I'm the Big Secret in this town, and I plan on staying that way.
So I switched off my second sight, turned my hand back to normal, dusted myself off, and walked over to them.
Thanks for the Always performing for my dear fans. Want autographs too?
Yeah, it came off snarky and like I was auditioning for stand-up, but I wasn't exactly feeling warm and fuzzy after my list of recent tactical oopsies.
You've earned the Truly. But let's skip the autograph part for now. Let me show you mine first.
The guy shuffled a bit and pulled a small cardboard card from the pocket of his crisply ironed pants. That little piece of antique ID would've confused any modern civilian, but not me. These were special press passes—given only to journalists cleared to work near the Wall and privy to Police Department secrets.
Why the police used such ancient paper IDs, I never bothered to ask. Frankly, didn't care.
Seeing the card, I exhaled slightly and didn't flinch when the journalist pulled out two flasks from a fancy leather bag embossed with intricate patterns.
Giving you all my You know, ma'am, how the brass doesn't like handing these out... to folks like me.
True. Cops always had beef with journalists. Even when it came to sharing weapons-grade spicy juice. I took the flasks with genuine thanks and promised to pay him back later.
And who's your companion? And while we're at it—what's your name? I narrowed my eyes suspiciously. Meet my assistant and intern, – He gave the intro like a gentleman. She nodded slowly. – As for me, I'm Noah. But everyone calls me Roger. Like the rabbit? Or the pirate flag? – Yeah, humor wasn't exactly my strong suit today either. I must say, I'm quite charmed by your exquisite sense of humor... and your -modern- – Roger shot back with a smirk tugging at one side of his mouth.
Damn. That mouth had a great curve. The salt-and-pepper temples were elegant, and yet his face looked oddly young—devoid of age, but with a mature stamp behind those wise green eyes. And that nose... with just the slightest noble bump...
Wait. What the hell was I even thinking?
I awkwardly hesitated and walked toward the bins and their Big Daddy to finish the cleanup. It took both flasks of the flammable cocktail to process the remains, and I raised my hands in mock guilt—just business expenses. The whole time, I kept a sharp eye on that sweet little duo. But they didn't budge, didn't even whisper to each other. Just stood there... staring at me.
Well, screw them.
Once I wrapped it all up and picked up the stiletto I'd flung at the very beginning of the mess, I quietly hoped there wouldn't be any more surprises. All my mind-moves were offline, unavailable for casting, and I needed time to recharge before I could sparkle like before.
Approaching the so-called journalists, I made it look like I was saying my goodbyes, but actually I was slowly sliding my stiletto out from the sleeve, ready to bonk Roger over the head—and then deal with his sidekick.
Sorry, I didn't catch .. you work for the police? – The man mumbled, scratching at his multi-day -sexy- stubble. Wait, what?! Sexy stubble?
Alenari, girl, get it together!
That's I'm an active field officer in the... – I started to say lazily, while suddenly pushing the stiletto into my hand, ready to strike.
But turns out he had his own agenda. And that agenda didn't include being knocked out and falling lovingly into my arms.
With a swift motion, he ran a hand over his face, winced, and then grabbed my attack arm with the other—stabbing something into my forearm. Ow, damn, that hurt! I felt like I'd been electrocuted. Tried to break free, but nope—couldn't move at all.
Well, I was screwed.
The paralysis didn't hit my eyes though, so I whipped them around in a panic, locking on the smirking reporter. His grin revealed a curious detail: he was missing a right fang. Glancing at my arm, I saw where it had ended up—lodged in me. That bastard bit me. A freaking strigoi.
Now it all made sense. Why his assistant was so robotic—he'd hypnotized her. He must've swiped her supply of fire-juice too. The press badge? Total
fake. And I hadn't even bothered to look at it properly. What a day.
And to top it all off, I didn't use my twilight vision to scan his true form.
High-rank strigoi could cloak themselves as human, sure—but this guy? Looked completely ordinary. No ghostly pallor, no pointy ears, no glowing amber eyes, none of that classic corpsecore aesthetic.
Just... Roger. The charming one.
As I mentally braced for a messy, tragic ending, Mr. Pseudo-Journalist gently pulled his fang from my arm, wiped it with a dainty handkerchief— without even bothering to clean my blood off.
See, Alenari? That wasn't so Just a little prick and poof, all done.
Oh great, now he's joking. And wait—how the hell does he know my name?! I never introduced myself!
He popped his fang back into his mouth—and with a gross little wiggle, it reattached like it had never left. Dude should've gone into dentistry. What a waste of talent.
I tried to act tough, but the paralysis still had me stuck. So I began prepping a desperate final strike—one that would probably cost me my physical form. I didn't want to think too hard about what came after. If I did, I wouldn't be able to go through with it...
The strigoi, meanwhile, rolled my blood on his tongue like a wine critic, groaned in pleasure, smoothed his hair (poser), and gave a graceful little bow.
Well, that's I won't keep you ladies. Perhaps we'll meet again. – Then he winked and vanished into the shadows.
Just like that, the paralysis melted away.
I blinked, wiggled my limbs in disbelief. Holy crap. He let me go. Right next to me, I heard a panicked squeak:
What happened?! What's going on?!
Turns out the hypnosis on the girl had worn off too. The young journalist batted her lashes and spun around in confusion.
Where am I? Who are you?
I let out a heavy sigh. This was officially the worst day I'd had in ages. The one silver lining? I didn't need to haul Angie off for memory scrubbing— she already remembered zilch. And I could feel it wasn't an act. That much, I'm a pro at reading.
-But you couldn't read the smooth-talking strigoi's lies,- – muttered that annoying little self-loathing voice in my head. I slapped it mentally, and it shut up in a sulk.
About five minutes later, Angie and I exited the slums. As soon as we hit a normal district, I flagged down a cab for her. The poor thing got an earful of lies from me: that I was a local, found her wandering lost, and helped her snap out of a daze. I even handed back her cardboard press badge—the one dropped by her oh-so-kind kidnapper—and told her to get an MRI ASAP, because -that kind of amnesia needs serious checking.-
My delivery was flawless. She bought every word.
Feeling beyond drained, I ordered myself an aero-taxi. My legs were jelly, but I couldn't go home yet. I still had to upload the combat footage, report the mission, and claim my paycheck.
I sank into the soft seat of the hover-cab and sent a silent thank-you to all the gods I don't believe in—for living in the City. This place got the first crack at every tech advancement, and our aero-taxis weren't used anywhere else yet. Our megapolis always got the best of everything. Rightfully so— our people had suffered enough to deserve it.
…It all started with the outbreak. A wave of disease that crashed over the capitals of the world. It looked a little like monkeypox—but only targeted major cities, infecting their entire populations. Strangely, the disease ignored everyone else, as if it had preferences.
Another weird trait? Speed. The damn thing spread at warp pace.
Only the lucky ones made it out—those who realized fast that medicine wouldn't help and that life outside the cities was still ticking along just fine. Those quick thinkers packed up and got out while they could.
The rest? Became bones. White skulls littered the capitals like seashells on a beach.
In just two days, humanity lost millions.
Survivors were stuffed into hastily built refugee towns while the world's governments (who miraculously survived first, of course) scrambled to figure things out. Eventually, some genius had the bright idea to bring together the top architects, engineers, and builders—and they started constructing the City based on blueprints and footage from the fallen metropolises.
The professionals in charge decided not to divide the new megapolis into districts based on the original capitals. Instead, they deliberately mixed the cities up, interlacing their streets without any clear pattern.
The idea was to unite the future population—and, as time would prove, the plan actually worked. Despite the massive differences in culture, language, and religion, people bonded. The reason was simple: shared tragedy unites better than any cheesy motivational slogan.
So when the project was finally completed, the first pedestrians of the City could take their evening strolls through New York's business district, admiring the majestic Art Deco skyscrapers, then pass through the elegant spires of Dubai's mosques and minarets, and finally dip their hands into Rome's whispering fountains.
Pure bliss.
The City became the dreamland of every escort in the world—no more worrying about travel logistics, since every capital and every cash-loaded client now existed in one convenient place.
The view from below was mesmerizing, and I struggled to stay focused— especially with the elderly cabbie and his glorious mustache showing off by zipping past the flame of the Statue of Liberty. That's when I had another random thought: after the megapolis was built, the best minds of the world
had to join forces again to create something else—the Wall. When the Obscurity appeared, the Municipality didn't skimp. They cracked open their war chest and built that beast.
Okay, time to get it together.
I pulled out my vanity kit and started freshening up—well, pretended to. In reality, I was skimming through the footage of the earlier battle, editing out all the appearances of the strigoi and his hostage. That part was personal and none of the cops' damn business.
I also decided to keep a copy of the entire incident for myself on an external drive, so I could analyze it later in peace and quiet. Technically, that was against protocol—making copies was forbidden. But how were they gonna check my brain? They sure as hell weren't gonna cut me open. Of that, I was pretty confident.
With the implant tasks done, it was time for a big, ugly question: What the hell is going on?
Why did so many creatures show up in one place, all at once? Why weren't my stilettos working on their physical forms? Where the hell did this -Noah
a.k.a. Roger- come from, and how did he pull off such a graceful little operation just to get a sample of my blood? How did he know my name? And how did he know I'd come exactly there?
As for the second-to-last question—I had a weak theory. But for the final one? A bold guess.
He might've known I'd go fight the bin monsters because he summoned them there to stir up trouble. That would've made sense—if I didn't know, from years of fieldwork, that They weren't capable of commanding or organizing. They didn't have leaders or armies. Not unless we're talking about those small hive-type clusters—like my recent trashy buddies. Those were the same species. They could team up.
Which meant... and I say this cautiously... maybe, just maybe, the Obscurity had produced its very first general.
And that, my friend, was a waking nightmare.
Because if They decided to march in with an actual army, the City wouldn't last a single day. Humanity had only two things left that could hurt those monsters: the liquid in the flasks—rare as hell and only effective against lower-tier creatures—and, well... me.
But even I had my limits. I could only handle small squads. Today had proven that loud and clear.
The thought of my own weakness made me grit my teeth, and the chubby cabbie jumped in his seat.
Everything okay? – I smiled at him – Don't worry. I don't bite.
But the strigoi did. And I needed to finish what he started. First, though— I'd gather intel. Talk to the Big Brains. That would come after the police station. Yep, this day would never end.
I sighed deeply—just in time for a sudden mental blast from Antwan, whose existence I had completely forgotten in all this chaos:
Ali! You there?! Where did you go?! I almost lost my mind! You're seriously freaking insane! Watch your tone, young – I snapped, both out loud and in my head, using full Auntie Command Mode. You're not my aunt! – came the dual reply—one from the mouthy kid, and one from the cab driver, who now definitely believed he was chauffeuring a certified lunatic.
Luckily for him, we landed, and he promptly accepted payment and noped the hell out, warding off evil spirits with hand gestures as he disappeared into the night.
Meanwhile, I was still bickering with Antwan as I made my way to the Police Department.
My sweet little pain in the ass, I don't owe you a play-by-play. You know
what I do for work. I can disappear at any moment when duty calls.
But I'm part of that work. Day and night
– I softened my tone just enough to soothe the brat. – And no one's taking your jobs away. I just got a hot call, couldn't bring you along. I'll tell you everything when I get back. For now—go to bed. It's already morning. If you can't sleep, watch the video I'm sending you. I'm not a .. – he grumbled, then cut the link.
Eh. He'll pout a while, then calm down. Especially once I tell him the whole story. His fresh eyes and sharp brain would definitely come in handy.
The Police HQ was painted a bright, cheerful orange, with LED garlands slithering along its walls. That color scheme came from a city-wide vote— people were sick of gloom and wanted even their harshest institutions to look a little more cheerful. Even the morgue got a pastel makeover—minty turquoise, baby. Now the dead could chill in full Disney ambiance. Sorry, that was too much. I'm tired, okay?
The building's cheerful interiotrear clashed wildly with the sour expression of the front desk gremlin.
What do you want? Come on, Skip the routine. You know me, I know you... Pass! – He shrieked with the zeal of a traffic cop on his first
Given my current mood, I was seconds away from causing a full-blown scandal—until salvation waddled into view.
A round man with receding hair and a wheeze to match appeared from around the corner, clutching his oversized glasses and barking:
Let her in, Yes, sir! – Juan saluted, opened the door, and made a face like he'd just swallowed bleach.
I walked alongside the boss—his name's Kim—as we headed for his office. The station was quiet in the pre-dawn hour, but we didn't talk. There were cameras everywhere, and nobody needed to hear what we were about to discuss.
Once inside, Kim skipped the greetings and pulled a small device from a desk drawer, its soft glow filling the room like a nightlight. I didn't waste time either—dumped the full data package from my implant onto the gadget.
He grunted in satisfaction, snapped the lid shut, and finally asked: – What brings you in, Dued?
My code name. In the language of the old world, it means - Death. Yeah, I
know—it sounds like a dime-store spy novel. But in our line of work, agents need codenames. And since I'm one of them, well... rules are rules.