I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
https://www.patréon.com/emperordragon
________________________________________
It was precisely 9:07 p.m. when I glanced at my watch, the minute hand ticking forward with a stubborn sense of purpose. Above the city, the sky had deepened into a rich, velvety blue, the kind of blue that almost looked black, its surface punctuated by faint, scattered stars. No one ever bothered to look up at them anymore—too distracted by the city's neon glare, too busy moving from one place to another, eyes glued to their phones or the pavement ahead. The stars watched over us in silence, unnoticed spectators of the night.
All around me, the city's heartbeat pulsed in the form of distant sirens and the low, constant hum of traffic. The streetlamps lining the pathways of the park buzzed with static electricity, their tired bulbs casting pools of dull amber light onto the cracked concrete. Each lamp created its own little halo, a soft, imperfect circle that failed to push back the darkness beyond its reach.
I sat alone on a battered wooden bench, its paint chipped and peeling, the wood beneath rough and splintered. In my hand was a paper cup of coffee—lukewarm, bitter, and entirely unappealing. I took occasional sips more out of habit than desire, using it as a prop, something to occupy my hands while my mind stayed sharp and alert. My gaze drifted across the park, but my attention was fixed on the reflection in the darkened window of a nearby building—someone was watching me.
She was there, just across the path, trying her best to blend in. Her hood was pulled up, shadowing her face, and she kept her head down, eyes glued to her phone as if she was absorbed in some urgent message. But I knew better. I'd noticed her hours ago, trailing me with all the subtlety of a marching band. She thought she was being clever, invisible in the anonymity of the city night. She didn't realize that her anxiety was as obvious to me as a flashing neon sign. I could smell it—sharp, nervous, unmistakable—even from two blocks away.
She looked to be in her early thirties, maybe a year or two younger. Her eyes were a deep, dark brown, intense and searching, darting up every so often to check if I'd noticed her. Her hair was glossy and black, falling in perfect waves that suggested she'd never had a bad hair day in her life. There was an air of money about her—her clothes were expensive, her perfume even more so. I caught hints of jasmine and sunscreen, mingled with the crisp, clean scent of new bills. But beneath all that, there was something else—a trace of something familiar, a scent that tugged at the edges of my memory, just out of reach.
She wasn't supernatural. I could tell that much. She wasn't a hunter, either. Just an ordinary human, caught up in something she didn't understand, and painfully bad at surveillance. If Richard were still here, he'd be doubled over with laughter, coffee sloshing in his cup as he watched her fumble through her amateur tail job.
I kept my eyes on her for another five minutes, waiting to see if she'd work up the nerve to approach me, to say something, to make her move. But she just paced back and forth, always trying to look casual, always failing miserably. Her nerves were written in every fidget, every sideways glance.
Eventually, I decided I'd had enough. I stood up, stretched my arms over my head, and tossed the cold coffee into the nearest trash bin. Without looking back, I made my way to my car, parked under the flickering glow of a streetlamp. I didn't bother to check if she was following. I already knew she would.
If she wanted to play this game, I'd let her. Let's see how far she's willing to go.
I drove across town, letting the city's face change with every passing block. The bright lights and bustling crowds faded behind me, replaced by dimmer neon signs and shuttered storefronts. The buildings grew older, their facades crumbling, graffiti scrawled across every available surface. This was no longer the part of the city you'd find in a tourist brochure. Here, the shadows were thicker, meaner. Here, the night had teeth.
Still, she followed. I caught glimpses of her car in my rearview mirror, always keeping a few cars back, always thinking she was clever. I had to give her credit—she was persistent, if nothing else.
But I wasn't here for her. Not tonight. I had business to take care of.
The hunter outpost was a nondescript building, wedged between a pawn shop with barred windows and a barber shop that hadn't seen a customer in weeks. From the outside, it looked like a rundown gun range, half its sign missing, the rest faded and barely legible. You'd never guess what lay beneath the surface—silvered weapons, jars of wolfsbane and other rare herbs, an archive of hunter knowledge hidden under the floorboards.
Inside, the air was thick with the smell of oil and gunpowder. I approached the counter and asked for the piece I'd left last week—Richard's old pistol. The one with the hair-trigger and the burnished oak grip, worn smooth by years of use. The gunsmith handed it over, freshly cleaned and oiled, the slide moving with buttery smoothness, the sights perfectly aligned. Every part gleamed as if it had just been made.
Holding it again felt strange. Like shaking hands with a ghost—familiar, comforting, and a little bit haunting. I nodded my thanks to the grizzled man behind the counter and stepped back out into the night.
That's when I heard it.
A voice, low and panicked, echoing from the alley behind the range. "...Give me the purse. Now!"
Then her voice. The woman who'd been following me. She sounded terrified, her words trembling with fear.
Of course. She hadn't gotten the message. She'd kept following, right into the worst part of town, and now she was paying the price—cornered by someone who sounded desperate and dangerous.
Stranger or not, I couldn't just walk away. I wasn't about to let her bleed out in a filthy alley.
I left the pistol tucked in my waistband. I didn't need it.
Without another thought, I sprinted toward the alley, my boots pounding against the concrete, moving faster than I had in days. The darkness swallowed me whole.