The hotel room was still full of silence. The soft hum of Dante's laptop filled the air. The light of the screen formed harsh shadows on his face. He plugged in the hard drive. The old files came to life in a flash. Swirls of encrypted information danced in front of his eyes. Where others saw chaos, Dante saw a key.

  He leaned back. His fingers moved with practiced ease. He broke through firewalls like paper doors. The city's security network spread before him. A vast web of live feeds streamed from every street, every alley, every hidden corner. He exhaled slowly. The screens popped in one by one.

  Clavius had called him out for staying behind that night. "You risked everything for a locked safe? For what?" Clavius’s voice had been sharp, edged with irritation. He hadn’t understood. None of them had. But now? Now, what Dante had stolen was about to pay off.

  A thousand eyes stared back at him from the screen. He scanned through them, sifting through the city’s pulse, searching. A few minutes passed. Then—there. A figure. A moment. A lead.

  Dante’s lips curled into a smirk.

  "Bingo."

  Rain dripped from the rusted beams above, pooling on the dock’s splintered planks. The tide groaned beneath them, black water slapping against the pylons. The gang boss slumped against a stack of shipping crates, blood trailing from his split lip onto his torn jacket. His breath came ragged, his good eye flicking between the two men standing before him.

  Clavius crouched low, meeting the man’s gaze with the quiet patience of a predator. His gloved hand rested on the hilt of a knife, its tip glinting in the dim light.

  "You’re going to tell me everything," he said, voice calm, even.

  The gang boss spat blood onto the wet wood, laughing hoarsely. "You think I’m scared of you? You’re a couple of dogs sniffing around shit."

  Alistair didn’t move, but the click of his revolver’s hammer echoed between the shipping containers. The boss stiffened.

  "Start talking," Alistair said, voice lazy, almost bored.

  The man swallowed hard. "Fine. Do you want to know about the girl? Rofford’s little princess? You’re already too late. She’s been passed around like a damn prize. First, the Black Knives took her. Then the Orpheus Circle got involved. And now?" He shook his head, a dark chuckle rasping from his throat. "Now she belongs to something worse."

  Clavius’s grip tightened on the knife. "Who?"

  The gang boss licked his broken lip, his face slick with rain and sweat. "There’s a buyer. Something old. Something that doesn’t deal in money."

  Alistair exhaled sharply. "What the hell does that mean?"

  The man flinched. "I don’t know! I just know that the Circle stopped bidding the moment they heard its name. That’s all I’ve got, I swear."

  Clavius studied him for a long moment, then stood. The gang boss sagged in relief—until Alistair swung the revolver. The butt cracked against the man’s temple, sending him sprawling into the puddles.

  Clavius stepped over him and glanced at Alistair. "The Orpheus Circle," he murmured. "That means we’re dealing with the occult."

  Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

  Alistair holstered his gun and sighed. "You ever get tired of chasing ghosts?"

  Clavius pulled his coat tighter around him as the rain thickened. "No."

  The two men turned, disappearing into the shadows of the docks, leaving the gang boss slumped in the rain, muttering prayers to gods that never listened.

  The alleyway lay in damp shadows. Brick walls glistened with the sheen of recent drizzle. A neon sign flickered above. Its dying light cast sporadic flashes of crimson onto the cracked pavement. Christina stood beneath it. One gloved hand rested in the pocket of her fitted trench coat. The other gripped a small leather folder.

  She radiated effortless beauty. She turned heads in boardrooms and back alleys alike. Her long golden hair flowed down her back in loose waves. Silky strands caught the occasional glint of neon. High cheekbones framed her face. A sharp jawline softened by full lips painted deep carmine stood out against the cool night air. Her emerald eyes shimmered beneath dark lashes. Her gaze stayed sharp and unwavering. Her body held curves and poise. Long legs rested in dark stockings. The slit in her coat revealed glimpses of a toned thigh as she shifted. Beneath the coat, a fitted dress hugged her form. It shaped her slender waist. Her chest rose and fell in steady breaths as she waited.

  The shadows rustled. A figure stepped forward. A heavy coat draped over him. A low hood hid his features. His voice came rough and low. It rolled through the night like gravel over steel.

  "You have it?"

  Christina exhaled slowly, extending the leather folder. "That's all I could find for now."

  A moment of silence passed as the man took the files, his fingers flicking through the pages with quick efficiency. The air around them felt still, heavy with unspoken tension.

  Something brushed against her ankle. Soft, small. A whisper of warmth in the cold night. Christina glanced down to see a kitten, no bigger than her palm, its fur a pale silver, almost luminescent under the alley’s dim glow. It stretched, its tiny claws kneading the fabric of her stockings before curling around her leg with a delicate purr.

  Her lips parted slightly. Without thinking, she bent down, scooping the kitten into her hands. Its body was warm, impossibly light, its big, golden eyes blinking up at her with a quiet trust. She ran her fingers along its tiny head, feeling the softness of its fur against her skin. A faint smile ghosted across her lips.

  The informant shifted impatiently. "Focus. We’re not here to play with strays."

  Christina didn’t look up. "Neither are they."

  The man hesitated, as if about to say something else, but instead tucked the folder beneath his coat and stepped back.

  "I’ll be in touch." Then, he melted into the shadows, his footsteps fading into the hum of the city beyond the alley’s mouth.

  Christina let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. When she looked down, the kitten was gone. Her arms, once cradling something small and warm, now held only the night air. The neon above flickered again, painting her in red and black as she stood alone, staring at the empty space where the kitten had been.

  A chill crept down her spine. Something about this exchange felt different. Something unseen had just passed through her hands, and she wasn’t sure if it had ever been there at all.

  The kitten darted through the labyrinth of alleys, paws barely making a sound against the rain-slicked pavement. Its sleek body weaved through the legs of late-night wanderers, slipping past neon-lit storefronts and the scent of sizzling street food. A gust of wind carried it forward as it sprang onto a rusted fire escape, claws clicking against the metal.

  Above, an open window spilled warm golden light onto the night. With a final leap, the kitten landed effortlessly on the windowsill, its tiny frame silhouetted against the luxury within.

  Inside, Conan reclined on a chaise lounge, dressed in a silk robe, a glass of red wine swirling lazily in his hand. The kitten landed in his palm, soft and weightless, its fur still cool from the night air. It looked up at him with wide, knowing eyes and let out a small, urgent meow.

  Conan smiled, the corners of his lips curving like a man who already knew the answer to the question. He ran a single finger along the kitten’s spine, feeling the tension in its tiny muscles.

  "Find her," he murmured. "Tell the others. Watch. Listen. And return."

  The kitten blinked, then leaped from his hand, vanishing into the night as swiftly as it had come.