Cipher moved through the darkened alley with unhurried steps, his polished shoes making barely a whisper against the cracked pavement. The notorious Crimson District lived up to its reputation tonight—neon signs from run-down establishments painted the narrow passage in flickering reds and purples, creating dancing shadows that seemed alive with ill intent.

He took a deep breath, tasting the mingled aromas of cheap liquor, cigarette smoke, and something less identifiable that hung perpetually in this part of the city. Around him, the night pulsed with dangerous energy.

Several figures loitered in recessed doorways and against graffiti-covered walls. Their eyes, reflecting the harsh neon glow, tracked his movement with predatory interest. A drug deal was happening to his right; to his left, a woman was being propositioned. Cipher registered these details automatically, filing them away in his mental catalog without breaking stride.

His tailored charcoal suit stood out starkly against the grime and decay. Not flashy—Cipher didn't do flashy—but quality couldn't be hidden completely. The fabric moved with him like a second skin as he navigated around a puddle of questionable origin.

Amateurs, he thought, noting how the watching men shifted nervously as he passed. They think they're predators, but they're just scavengers.

Like a bunch of hyenas warily watching a lion past them.

One particularly bold individual pushed himself off the wall ahead, planting himself directly in Cipher's path. Broad-shouldered and sporting a jagged scar across his left cheek, the man crossed tattooed arms over his chest. Three companions drifted closer, forming a loose semicircle.

The leader's lips curled into a derisive smile, revealing a gold-capped tooth.

"Lost, buddy? Wrong alley."

Cipher's eyes flicked to him for a mere second—enough to tell him everything. The man was right-handed, judging by the subtle callouses on his index and middle fingers, likely from frequent trigger use. His stance was defensive but not disciplined, indicating a background in street brawling rather than professional combat. The tattoo on his wrist suggested an affiliation with a low-level syndicate, possibly a local gang rather than an international player. His boots, well-worn but sturdy, hinted at someone accustomed to moving quickly, perhaps an enforcer or courier rather than a direct combatant.

Cipher mentally calculated the optimal takedown—three seconds, four if the man resisted. A single strike to the solar plexus would wind him, a follow-up to the knee would drop him, and a final press to the carotid artery would render him unconscious in under five seconds. No wasted movement, no unnecessary effort.

His gaze flicked away, dismissing the man entirely.

Not even worth the trouble.

Cipher didn't break his stride. Didn't reach for a weapon. Didn't even change his expression from its mask of perfect indifference. He simply said, in a voice that carried no more emotion than a weather report:

"Move."

The group erupted in harsh laughter that echoed off the narrow walls.

"You hear this guy?"

The leader turned to his companions, his scarred face splitting into a wider grin.

"Got some nerve—"

One of them; taller, thinner, with darting eyes that had seen more than the others, suddenly grabbed his friend's arm.

"Wait,"

he hissed, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"Look at him."

The group fell silent, their amusement evaporating as they truly observed the stranger for the first time. They saw the precision in his perfectly knotted tie. The coldness in his gray eyes that held not a flicker of fear. The way he walked—like a man who had nothing to prove because he had already proven everything.

"I said move."

Cipher's voice remained soft, almost gentle. He didn't threaten. He didn't posture. He simply stated a fact.

The leader's confidence wavered visibly. His eyes darted to his companions, seeking reassurance he wouldn't find. The thin one was already backing away, murmuring something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a prayer.

"Hey, man, no trouble,"

the leader said, his bravado collapsing. He stepped aside, motioning his friends to do the same.

"Just... just checking, you know? Lotsa wrong turns in this neighborhood."

Cipher passed between them without acknowledgment, feeling their eyes boring into his back. He knew they were wondering who—or what—he was. The district had its hierarchies, its recognized players. He wasn't one of them, which made him something worse: an unknown variable.

Behind him, he heard a whispered exchange.

"Who the hell was that?"

"Didn't you see his eyes? Like looking at a fucking corpse, man."

"Shut up. Just... shut up. Let's get out of here."

The conversation faded as Cipher rounded a corner, leaving the thugs to their worried speculation. Their fear amused him mildly—the reputation he'd cultivated over years serving its purpose once again. Fear was currency in his line of work, more valuable than information sometimes. And he was, by necessity, very wealthy.

The alley opened into a slightly wider passage lined with basement entrances to various establishments. Music throbbed from behind a steel door painted crimson, while drunken laughter spilled from another. Cipher moved past them all, his destination already fixed in his mind.

He paused briefly at a junction, checking his reflection in a shattered window. No one followed him—not yet, anyway. The night was still young.

***

The gambling den announced itself with nothing more than a burnished brass doorknob on an otherwise unremarkable door. Cipher approached it with practiced nonchalance, aware of the two guards flanking the entrance. Their casual postures didn't fool him—both carried compact submachine guns beneath their jackets, and the shorter one had a knife strapped to his ankle.

"Pretty late for a social call," the taller guard remarked, his hand drifting toward his concealed weapon.

Cipher leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a whisper as he uttered a single word:

"Chrysanthemum."

His eyes never left the guard’s face, cataloging every micro-expression, every involuntary twitch. The slight widening of pupils, the flicker of recognition buried under feigned indifference, the imperceptible shift in stance that signaled the moment of hesitation before obedience.

Cipher didn’t stop there—he noted the man's posture, the way his right hand instinctively hovered near his jacket. A firearm, shoulder-holstered. Likely compact, something concealable but reliable—Glock 43, maybe a Sig P365. His knuckles bore faint abrasions, the kind that came from frequent but controlled hand-to-hand training. Not a street brawler. Not a brute. A professional, ex-military judging by the squared stance and the disciplined restraint in his movements.

The other guard, shorter, bulkier, had different tells. His weight was slightly shifted to his left foot, the bulge at his right ankle confirming an additional weapon—a tactical knife. The scar along his temple was the kind left by shrapnel. A survivor of some warzone Cipher had likely read about in passing. Fast, but predictable. If he attacked first, he’d go for a sweeping strike, not a straight jab. Two seconds to neutralize him. Three if the other one moved simultaneously.

Neither of them would get the chance.

Cipher mentally mapped out his options. If this were an ambush, the most efficient takedown would be a throat strike to the taller one, disabling his airway before he could reach for his gun. A pivot to the side would keep the shorter one from drawing his knife fully before a single strike to the temple dropped him. Five seconds, at most. Four, if he wanted to make it look effortless.

But it wasn’t an ambush.

The guard exhaled slowly and stepped aside.

"Go ahead," the guard said after a moment's hesitation, stepping aside and opening the door with exaggerated courtesy.

The interior assaulted Cipher's senses with smoke, noise, and the distinctive scent of desperation. Hazy blue light filtered through the dense cigarette smoke, giving the cramped space an underwater quality. Dozens of people clustered around tables where cards were dealt and dice rolled, their faces illuminated by the glow of their vices.

Cipher moved through the crowd like a ghost, barely disturbing the smoke as he passed. He recognized several faces—a corrupt city councilman losing badly at poker; a police captain who should have been investigating this place rather than playing roulette; various syndicate soldiers and lieutenants eyeing each other warily across felt-covered tables.

He made his way to the bar, ordering whiskey he had no intention of drinking. As the bartender placed the glass before him, Cipher caught a snippet of whispered conversation.

"You see that guy who just walked in? Dark suit, looks like he's calculating everyone's life expectancy?"

"Shit. That's him."

The second bartender's voice dropped even lower.

"The Shadow Hunter."

"No way. I thought that was just a story."

"If he's here, something big's happening. Last time he showed up at the Crimson Palace, they found the owner floating in the harbor the next morning."

Cipher allowed himself the faintest smile as he pretended to sip his drink. Reputation was indeed a powerful tool. He scanned the room methodically, searching for his target—an informant who claimed to have information on the Serpent Emperor's latest operation.

Cipher leaned against the bar, his fingers drumming against the untouched glass of whiskey in front of him. His eyes never stopped moving, flicking from one face to another, cataloging details with mechanical precision. A man in the corner booth shifted his weight too often—nervous, not from alcohol, but from concealed intent. The dealer at the blackjack table counted cards effortlessly but didn’t play; an enforcer, placed there for observation, not participation. The bartender’s fingers lingered too long on the cash drawer every time someone paid, skimming off the top, but nothing substantial enough to be useful.

Twenty minutes had passed, and Cipher had already confirmed what he suspected long before walking through the door. The informant wasn’t coming.

His eyes dropped briefly to the condensation forming on the side of his glass before traveling up to the vintage clock mounted above the bar. A full minute had passed since he last scanned the room. He reviewed everything in his mind, dissecting the micro-movements, behaviors, and inconsistencies, fitting them together like puzzle pieces. No last-minute arrivals. No hesitation from those already present.

This was another decoy, another false trail carefully placed by his nemesis. The Serpent Emperor was nothing if not thorough. Every move was designed to mislead, to send him chasing phantoms while the real operation moved forward elsewhere.

Cipher exhaled quietly, adjusted the cuffs of his sleeve, and slid a generous tip beneath the untouched whiskey glass. He had already learned everything this place had to offer. Without another word, he turned and made his way toward the exit, the weight of unseen eyes following his every step.

He left the untouched whiskey on the bar, sliding a generous tip underneath. Always best to be remembered favorably—it made the next visit easier.

The second location was a nightclub called Venom, its entrance marked by a neon snake that writhed endlessly in electric green. The music inside pounded with a relentless beat that Cipher found mildly irritating as he made his way through gyrating bodies and flashing lights.

The club owner, a nervous man with thinning hair and expensive jewelry, practically tripped over himself when he spotted Cipher approaching his private booth.

"Sire! What an unexpected pleasure!"

His smile was strained, eyes darting to the exits.

"Had I known you were coming—"

"The information,"

Cipher cut him off.

"Where is it?"

The owner's smile faltered.

"Ah, yes, about that... my contact, he, um, failed to appear. Left this for you instead."

He handed over a sealed envelope with trembling fingers.

Inside was a playing card—the ace of spades—with a serpent drawn in green ink across its face. Another taunt. Another dead end.

"I swear I didn't know," the owner babbled. "If there's anything else I can do—"

Cipher was already walking away, slipping the card into his pocket. The Serpent Emperor was leading him on a deliberate chase through the city's underbelly. The question was: Why?