The dawn of Orub City woke slowly, its morning fog hanging low enough to blur roofs into soft silhouettes. Perched on the slanted tiles of an abandoned watchtower, the Fallen One adjusted the angle of his sword & sheath as it stretched and clicked into the shape of slender binoculars. Cold metal pressed against his eyes while he flipped through the mission dossier tucked beneath his elbow.
"Classified Tier. Velrise. Threat level: destabilizing potential. Proceed with maximum discretion."
Discretion, he had.
But staring at the stickwoman down below a bright jacket, hair knotted and hanged loosely at the back, squinting at the cat-themed sign of a small shop....he felt discretion was wasted here.
Velrise pushed open the pet store door with her shoulder. A bell jingled. From his vantage point, the Fallen One watched through dusty glass as she held two bags of cat food, one in each hand, comparing ingredients. Her lips or whatever stick figures would call "lips" moved slowly while she read. She laughed at something the cashier said an innocent, airy laugh that carried faintly through the morning.
He lowered the binoculars and exhaled sharply, the breath fogging.
"…She's lethal, all right. Absolutely terrifying."
Velrise stepped out moments later, plastic bag swinging at her side. She did not look upward—not once. Even as she paused to adjust her jacket, not even a flick of her eyes toward the rooftops. He swept behind a broken stone gargoyle as she passed underneath.
She hummed.
He scowled.
Later that afternoon, he shadowed her along a narrow road lined with clay pots and patchy grass. She stopped at Granny Bea's pale green cottage. The Fallen One found cover in a tall persimmon tree across the street, boots braced against the trunk, cloak blending against leaves.
Velrise pressed her knuckles to the door, balancing a paper bag of groceries on her hip. Granny Bea answered instantly—as if she had been waiting by the door the entire time.
"Oh, it's you! Come in, dear!"
Velrise didn't step inside. She passed the groceries over, then crouched to fiddle with a loose hinge that squeaked each time the door moved. Children from the daycare next door spilled into the yard with shrieks of joy, crowding around her. She organized them effortlessly: a game, some chalk, a small obstacle course out of crates. The Fallen One's sheath-subsystem vibrated softly, an analysis reading rising along the interior of his vision:
Empathy level: Extremely high.
Hostility: Undetectable.
He tapped the sheath for silence.
Granny Bea craned her neck and looked vaguely toward the tree he was hiding in. His hand slid toward his blade instinctively. But the old woman only frowned at the sky.
"Is that rain? My joints say rain."
Velrise laughed and shuffled the children away from the garden, helping Bea shut the windows before stepping back outside.
Still, she never looked toward the tree.
Still, she never sensed him.
He wasn't sure whether to be relieved or offended.
By late afternoon, she slipped into her hotdog stand job. The Fallen One watched from behind an alley's rusted dumpster, head tilted, studying her movements. She greeted customers with a smile that never waned, even when someone knocked over the condiments.
When the line thinned, he approached. Not fully just close enough to test something.
"You ever get the feeling," he murmured toward her, tone low and deliberate, "that shadows follow you more than they should?"
She blinked.
"Oh! Are you talking about that economic forecast report? Yeah, everyone's been saying the market's unpredictable lately."
She handed a hotdog to him reflexively even though he didn't order one.
"There you go! And be careful, mustard's sneaky."
He stood still, the hotdog warm in his hand.
This job was a joke.
Someone owed him hours of wasted reconnaissance.
At dusk, he followed her out of the city's edge to a modest, fenced house. He found a position on the part of the wall where ivy grew thickest. There, mostly hidden, he watched Velrise slip into her garden.....quiet, purposeful.
She moved with care among rows of tomatoes, peppers, and herbs. She checked each plant as though speaking a shared language. Then she turned to her water farm: a cluster of tanks and pipes she had assembled herself. Steam hissed softly. Valves clicked. She adjusted one with a knowledgeable twist.
He noted her handiwork.
Craftsmanship. Planning. Attention to detail.
These traits could have belonged to a classified threat.
But here they were used to keep basil alive.
That night, after she went inside, he scanned his notes.
They read like the diary of a street detective tailing a school volunteer.
He tore the page out and stuffed it deep into his coat.
The next days bled quietly into one another.
On the second morning, Velrise helped Granny Bea repot a drooping violet. The Fallen One watched from the roof of a nearby shed, elbows propped on his knees. Bea sang loudly, off-key. Velrise hummed with her. Birds landed on the fence, unbothered by his presence.
The third day, Velrise fixed a toddler's tricycle outside the daycare. The Fallen One crouched behind a parked delivery truck, face scrunched, as the squeak of the wrench grated against the wheel. Velrise wiped her forehead with a rag, satisfied.
The fourth day, she was back at the pet store. The cashier greeted her with, "The usual for Mochi, Chestnut, and Button?"
She beamed.
He rubbed his temples.
Day five, she joined neighbors for board games. He lay sprawled on a rooftop, chin resting on his crossed arms as soft laughter floated upward. Despite being directly above them, none sensed him.
He realized, not without a pinch of irritation, that these civilians were so unguarded so thoroughly ordinary that even accidentally revealing himself felt unlikely.
By the sixth night, she sat at her desk by the window, writing in a small journal. The Fallen One positioned himself on the branch of an old elm just close enough to read her posture, but not her words. Her lamp cast warm shapes against the curtains. The scratch of her pen was impossibly calm.
He waited for something—anything—to shift.
Some sign.
Some flicker of danger.
But she only yawned softly, closed the journal, and dimmed the lamp.
He let the silence stretch.
Then said into the dark, "…Intel's garbage."
He briefly considered staying the seventh day to confirm....but no. He had seen enough. His mission was meant for assassins, not babysitters.
Velrise disappeared into her room. Lights out.
The Fallen One reached into his cloak, pulled out the bounty photo, stared at her static smiling face one last time, then crumpled the picture until it crackled in his fist.
"She's not suspicious at least," he muttered.
Shadow ripples crawled up his legs, swirling around his form. The elm branch shook, leaves whispering....but Velrise slept soundly, oblivious.
In a muted pulse of darkness, the Fallen One vanished.
The neighborhood settled.
The routine he had memorized would continue without him.