Chapter 10: Chapter 10

But ghosts had a way of finding you first.

They did not wait to be hunted. They drifted ahead, always just beyond reach, slipping through the cracks of memory, nestling into the empty spaces you tried to forget. They lingered in the hush of abandoned streets, in the weight of a name spoken too softly, in the silence stretched thin between heartbeat and blade.

They didn’t just drift ahead, just out of reach. They sank into you—beneath the skin, beneath the ribs, threading through muscle and marrow until they were part of you. A weight that never left, never lifted, pressing down with every step. A shadow cast even in darkness.

And sometimes—when you weren’t looking, when you weren’t ready—they stopped running.

Sometimes, they had never been running at all.

Sometimes, they had been waiting all along.

The rain had turned the alley to glass.

Water pooled in uneven stone, throwing back distorted reflections—jagged, shifting things, bent and broken in the ripples. Kristos stared down at himself, the shape of his own face warping in the puddle’s surface.

It should have been familiar. The pale skin, stretched too tight over sharp angles. The lines cut deep into his brow. The eyes—hollow, distant, like something looking out from beneath a frozen river.

But the more he looked, the less it seemed like his.

The rain pounded against his shoulders, ran down his coat, dripped from his sleeves. It shuddered across the water’s surface, splintering his reflection into something unrecognizable.

A ghost. A stranger.

A thing.

A face seen in the dark before a blade slid between the ribs.

He exhaled, steady, measured, watching the breath curl against the cold.

No name. No past. No future that didn’t end with a collar or a grave.

He should be inside by now. Meeting Imp. Shaking off the night’s weight with cheap drink and cheaper company. That was the plan. That was why he was here.

But the thought of the tavern’s warmth made his skin crawl.

He wasn’t in the mood for voices pressing too close. For laughter that felt like knives at his back. The air in those places had weight—something clawing, something waiting.

He knew what waiting felt like.

The door to the Low Tide swung open.

Kristos didn’t move. He only watched.

A man stepped into the storm—loose-limbed, deliberate. Not hurried, not hesitant. His steps were easy, practiced, the kind that took in everything without looking like they did. He moved through the rain without rushing, without flinching, his coat settling around him like a second skin.

He didn’t linger. Just stood there for a breath, scanning the street—not searching, just taking stock. A man accustomed to knowing his surroundings without making it obvious. He wasn’t trying to be unnoticed.

He wasn’t trying at all.

And that was worse.

Kristos had spent enough time in the dark to recognize one of his own. But this one—this was something else. Not just a man who lived in the dark, but one who thrived in it. Someone who had learned to move through it without leaving footprints.

The man turned, slipping into the night. Unhurried. Confident. Like he had all the time in the world.

Kristos did not follow.

His hand twitched at his side, instinct curling in his fingers—but not the urge to chase. The urge to disappear.

He stayed where he was, watching, waiting, uncertain if he had just seen the hunter or the bait.

The rain whispered against the stone, tapping soft rhythms against the empty streets. He shifted, rolling his shoulders beneath the heavy weight of his coat, the leather clinging, soaked through.

His reflection had already dissolved in the puddle’s surface.

Good.

He turned away from it.

Away from the tavern. Away from Imp.

Somewhere lower. Somewhere quieter.

Somewhere the city didn’t look back.

The Rain Followed.

Kristos walked without urgency, letting the water slip down the back of his neck, past his collar, settling cold against his spine. The city loomed around him, its alleys narrowing, its rooftops pressing close. The world shrank, pressed in from all sides, but it wasn’t the walls or the streets that made it feel small. It was the silence.

The hush between footsteps.

The stillness between flickering lantern glow and the occasional distant voice.

A city at rest. A city watching.

The past was done chasing him. It had already caught up. It had settled into his breath, into the fabric of his coat, into the spaces between one thought and the next. Like rain soaking through the seams, sinking deeper with every step.

If you can’t remember who you are, does it matter who you were?

The question had waited for him in the puddle’s reflection, in the flicker of recognition that never came. He had no answer.

But he knew what he was now.

A man walking the edges.

A man hunted.

A man who no longer had the luxury of mistakes.

He flexed his fingers against the cold. The damp made them ache, but there was something else beneath it. Something older.

The Viper would be moving soon.

If Mael found him first, it wouldn’t be a job, and it wouldn’t be mercy. It would be a lesson. A collar and a cage if he was lucky. Something worse if he wasn’t.

He turned a corner, steps slow, measured. He wasn’t rushing. He had chosen this place. Lower to the earth. Closer to the rot.

Fewer eyes.

Fewer debts waiting to be collected.

And yet—

The feeling remained.

Not a presence. Not a shadow.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Just the weight of something unseen.

Something waiting.

Kristos pushed open the heavy wooden door, shoulders rolling forward beneath the weight of his long coat. The leather—wet, swollen, clinging to him like a second skin—dragged at his frame, its frayed edges curling from years of hard use. The silence inside swallowed him whole, thick as oil, clinging to his breath. No hesitation. No pause. Just movement, slow and deliberate, as if dictated by something older than choice.

The air was damp, rank with the scent of old wood and boiled grains—a place where faith had rotted, leaving only the stink of hunger behind. The caretaker didn’t just ignore him—he avoided him, the way men avoided blades left too close to reach. Useful. Dangerous. Best left untouched.

No candles. No torches. Only the dim, sickly light filtering through soot-blackened stained glass, casting warped shadows like the ghosts of prayers too long unanswered. The saints in the glass had been eaten away by time and neglect, their faces hollowed, eyeless, forgotten. This was no longer a place of worship.

Now, it was a place where the destitute fed and left. No sermons. No prayers. Just survival.

The wooden tables bore the deep, ragged scars of knives, of time, of nameless conflicts too old to remember but never erased. Pews lined the walls, spines broken, their purpose lost to rot. At the front, where an altar once stood, now a simple wooden counter, bare except for bowls of thin soup and hard bread—offered without grace, received without gratitude. Sustenance, nothing more. No one lingered longer than they had to.

Kristos moved without urgency, boots pressing into stone with the finality of nails driven into wood. The caretaker did not look up, did not greet him—just set the bowl down, already knowing why he had come. Kristos said nothing in return. There was no need.

He sat near the wall, where he could see the whole room. The damp leather of his coat sagged around his frame, its sodden weight gripping him like a corpse’s grasp. His fingers flexed against the drag of it—scarred knuckles shifting, the calloused ridges of his grip carved into the shape of a sword hilt rather than the cup he now held. He rolled his shoulder, and the familiar pull of knotted scar tissue dragged tight over his ribs, a wound healed but never whole. It flared, dull and ever-present, a whisper of suffering buried beneath his skin.

The warmth barely registered. A distant thing. Like pain, like exhaustion—background noise, something felt but never acknowledged.

The broth was thin, ghostly, salted just enough to be tolerated—a meal designed to keep men breathing, not satisfied. The bread was a dry husk, neither stale nor fresh, neither good nor foul—just there, like everything in this place.

The scrape of his spoon was the only sound, sharp against the silence. Then—the door groaned.

Kristos didn’t look up. He didn’t need to.

Bootsteps—quick, restless, the uneven gait of a man who could never quite settle. A chair scraped back, the sound a blade grating over bone. A body dropped into the seat across from him, movements too fast—all nervous energy, the twitch of fingers shaking out damp sleeves, the reflexive flick of knuckles against the table’s edge.

Imp.

He leaned forward, halfway into Kristos’ space. His fox-sharp eyes flickered with something unreadable, something almost hungry. Then, just as quickly, he pulled back—fast, instinctive, like a man realizing he’d stepped too close to a sleeping animal.

Water dripped from his too-thin coat, soaked through despite the layers, the frayed cuffs clutching at his wrists like dead fingers. He scrubbed a hand down his face, dragging his sleeve over his mouth, as if swallowing whatever he truly wanted to say.

Kristos kept his gaze down, drinking slow, half-lidded and unreadable. Imp smelled like the streets—wet iron and old pipe smoke, the lingering scent of too many places he shouldn’t have been.

"You’re a real piece of work, you know that?" Imp muttered, low and edged. Not loud enough to draw attention, but the frustration bled through.

Kristos hummed, the sound dry and dismissive.

"Had to walk through this pissin’ rain just to find you," Imp grumbled, rubbing his hands together for warmth. "You owe me a drink."

Kristos didn’t answer.

Imp's fingers tapped—quick, staccato, barely leashed tension. A sharp breath through his nose. He curled his fingers into a loose fist, flexed them open again—like resisting the urge to knock something over just for the sake of movement. "You were supposed to meet me."

Kristos lifted his cup again, drinking slow. Kristos shrugged. Not careless. Not even dismissive. Just an acknowledgment "Didn’t feel like it."

Imp gaped. Then scoffed, throwing up a hand. "Didn’t—?! Gods-damned—Kristos, do you have a death wish?"

Kristos shrugged. "If I did, I’d have let the Viper’s boys take me weeks ago."

That shut Imp up for a moment. His fingers tapped an uneven rhythm against the table as he watched Kristos, weighing something. Then he exhaled and rubbed his temple. "Right. Whatever. You’re alive. That’s what matters."

A silence, taut and uncertain.

"I talked to someone tonight."

Kristos didn’t react. Didn’t press. Just let the words hang.

Imp scowled. It was always like pulling teeth with him. "Don’t know who he was. But he wasn’t one of Mael’s."

A flicker of something in Kristos’ expression, barely there.

"Had gang tattoos. Old ones. From before the Syndicos moved into the Hollows."

Another pause. Imp exhaled, shifting. "Could be a bounty hunter. Could be the Syndicos brought in someone from the outside. But that doesn’t add up." His fingers twitched. His voice tightened. "He wasn’t looking for you."

Kristos finally spoke, soft, dismissive. "Then what’s the problem?"

Imp held his gaze. "He offered you a job."

And that—finally—got a reaction.

Kristos’ fingers flexed once before going still again. A slow inhale—not sharp, but deeper than before. A fraction more space between his spine and the chair, like his body was preparing for movement it wouldn't make.

Kristos’ grip on his cup tightened, his fingers flexing just once before he forced them still. His breath locked. The old break in his nose throbbed—not from pain, but from the way his body braced, ready, instinctive. And then—

A violent vision. Like a blade, splitting his mind apart.

Fire, screaming, the botched hit—the Hollows burning.

The smell of flesh melting like wax.

The crackle of timber collapsing, the smoke stinging his eyes.

And then—not that night.

Something else.

Cold hands. Metal biting into his wrists. Not shackles. Worse.

A table. Not wood. Stone. Slick. Stinking. Something that clung. Not water. Thicker.

His body, pinned. Not struggling. Not able.

Breath too fast. Chest too tight. A rib jutting against flesh that didn’t move right.

Scalpel at his ribs. A whisper of steel, too sharp to be real.

A voice, low and patient. Not cruel. Not kind. Just curious. Just studying.

The slice was slow.

He felt it part him. Felt the skin give way—not cut, but peeled. A shivering tremor of raw nerves kissing air.

The rib shifted. The hands held it in place.

A voice, distant. Fascinated. Not speaking to him. Speaking about him.

He wanted to scream. Didn’t. Couldn’t.

The pain folded inward, burrowing into his ribs like something living. Something growing.

It never ended.

It never ended.

It never ended.

His chest heaved. A real pain. A real moment.

His breath hitched—just for a second. A pulse of nausea low in his throat, swallowed before it could bloom.

His fingers twitched around the cup, a half-second away from shattering before he forced them still.

His breath locked. A raw, shuddering pulse at the base of his skull. His hand twitched—almost, almost—before he exhaled through his teeth and pressed his fingers to his temple. Steady. Stay steady.

And then—it was gone.

The real world bled back in, slow and sluggish. His chest rose, fell. The drink in his hand was solid, real. His grip on it was too tight—his fingers ached, but he didn’t loosen them. Not yet.

He set his drink down. Didn’t look at Imp. Didn’t acknowledge the moment.

Silence. Then—flat, quiet, almost a whisper "Not interested."

Imp stared. Blinked. Then barked a sharp, humorless laugh. "Not interested?"

Kristos didn’t answer.

Imp shook his head. "Right. Sure. I’ll just tell him you’re busy."

Imp shoved back from the table, the legs scraping hard against stone. Like he was shaking off something he didn’t want to carry. He started to turn—then stopped, just for a breath. A hesitation.

"Don’t wait too long."

And then—he was gone.

Kristos didn’t move.

Not yet.

The chapel was silent again. The air still thick with something unspoken.

He traced a scar. Absent. Unthinking.

Maybe on his wrist. Maybe along his ribs.

A wound he didn’t remember getting.

Then, just as he began to stand—a shift.

A prickle at the base of his skull.

Slowly, he looked up.

Near the doorway, where the shadows gathered—someone had been standing. The prickle at the base of his skull sharpened. Not a beggar. Not Imp. Someone else. Someone moving too fast for the weight of the room.

Kristos stayed still for one more breath.

Then, finally, he stood.

The bowl, empty. The drink, half-finished.

The rain pounding against the stone.

He stepped outside. The rain swallowed everything. The street, the chapel, the ghosts in his mind.

He didn’t look back.