"Tsk!" Claude clicked his tongue, fingers drumming impatiently on the arms of the worn chair. The dim light from the lantern in his inn room flickered as he stared at the air before him with hollow eyes.
"Two weeks..." he muttered under his breath, frustration creeping into his voice. "Two weeks and I've found absolutely nothing." His eyes narrowed. "None of the inn's visitors seem remotely suspicious."
He shook his head, trying to banish the gnawing doubt that had begun to cloud his judgment. Despite the mysterious note's reaction, his leads were paper-thin, almost non-existent. That cursed note all but proved that someone—or something—within the inn was tied to it.
By extension, they had to be linked to the subspace disturbances and disappearances plaguing the city. Yet, every face he studied, every whisper he overheard, led him nowhere. It was like he was chasing smoke.
"At least no one's disappeared in the meantime…" he sighed, leaning back in the chair as his gaze wandered to the ceiling. "That's something, I suppose."
His time hadn't been entirely wasted, though. Between his careful investigation of the inn's guests and his discreet talks with the locals, he'd managed to learn a great deal more about the undercurrents of the city's criminal world.
"Grey Falcon Gang," he muttered, rolling the name over his tongue as if testing its weight. "Established seven years ago, close ties to the current Lord of the city... dominant force in the underground."
It was a lead, at least. One that hadn't brought him closer to solving the mystery of the note, but one that might uncover something else equally useful.
"And…" Claude muttered, glancing at a grey cloak he had recently gone out and bought. "The Mad Dogs."
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The streets were bathed in moonlight, casting a silvery sheen over the abandoned alleys as Claude made his way through the shadows. The wind was biting, and he pulled his cloak tighter around him, his breath visible in the cold air.
His destination?
A crumbling part of the city, long forgotten by the authorities. Now overrun by the remnants of the Mad Dog Gang.
Once the most feared force in the city's underworld, the Mad Dogs had fallen from grace. Their leader had mysteriously passed away years ago, leaving the gang fractured and weak.
The Grey Falcons, sensing blood in the water, had steadily begun to devour their resources, seizing control of territory that had once belonged to the Mad Dogs.
Claude had learned of a skirmish tonight, a chance to observe the remnants of the Mad Dogs in action—and more importantly, their leader.
He arrived just as the battle erupted in the streets. From a distance, concealed atop a rooftop, Claude watched the scene unfold below. Two groups of men collided, their bodies crashing together in a tide of flesh and blood.
Steel flashed under the moonlight, whilst a cacophony of shouts and screams reverberated in the alley. The smaller group, whom he assumed to be the Mad Dogs, fought with a vicious tenacity, and despite being fewer in number, they pressed the foes hard.
In the chaos, Claude's eyes were drawn to a figure standing at the forefront of the Mad Dogs' forces—a young man barely in his twenties, with a jagged scar running down his left eye.
A name instantly floated to Claude's mind as he saw the young man's appearance.
Thibault—the son of the former Mad Dog leader.
Even from his vantage point, Claude could see the raw anger and resolve in the man's every movement, each strike filled with bitterness and hate. The Mad Dogs had the upper hand, pushing the Grey Falcons back, but just as they were on the verge of crushing their enemies...
Thibault signalled a retreat.
Confusion rippled through his men, but they obeyed without question, scattering into the shadows as quickly as they had emerged.
Claude narrowed his eyes, a question lingering in his mind.
Why retreat now?
Afterall, they were at an advantage. Why not press their foes further?
As the dust settled, Claude slipped from the rooftop and followed the Mad Dogs through the twisting backstreets. Keeping his distance, he trailed them silently until they arrived at the headquarters, a ruinous mess of buildings that haphazardly dotted the street.
Thibault eventually broke off from the group, heading deeper into the building alone.
'Perfect,' Claude thought, following from behind.
As Thibault entered what appeared to be his office, Claude condensed an ice pick in his palm. With a flick of his wrist, the icy construct vanished, reappearing in front of Thibault.
It hovered inches from the man's neck, stopping him in his tracks. Thibault froze, his throat bobbing as an icy chill stabbed at his neck, rooting his feet in place.
"Who—who are you?" Thibault's voice was sharp with fear, though he tried to mask it. "Have you been sent by those Grey Falcon rats?! Come on, then! Kill me if you want. I don't care!" He gritted his teeth, his eyes darting around the room.
Low and hoarse, Claude's voice rang out from behind him. "Don't worry about that." The ice pick inching closer against Thibault's skin. "I'm not with them. I just need you to tell me everything you know about the Grey Falcons."
Thibault's jaw clenched. "Why the hell should I tell you anything?"
In response, Claude flicked his wrist, and several sharp and deadly ice spears materialized in front of Thibault, their tips glistening as they angled toward him.
Thibault's defiance cracked as a bead of sweat swimming down the side of his temple. "Damn it!" he hissed, his eyes darting around, searching for an escape. "You're one of those freaks, aren't you?"
Claude remained silent. To him, this silence could stretch for an eternity. He was in no hurry. After all, it wasn't his throat about to be slashed.
Huff! Huff! Huff!
The only sound that remained was Thibault's breathing, short and uneven bursts breaking the silence.
Yet, this silence endured even less time than the brawl Claude had just witnessed.
Thibault spat on the ground, piercing the stillness in the air. "Fine. I don't know why you're against them, but I'll talk." He took a deep breath, then spoke through gritted teeth. "The Grey Falcons… they've got people with powers. Real monsters, though. Not like you—worse. They don't even look human anymore. That's why I pulled my men back. We could have finished them off, but I didn't want to expand the fight and attract those things' attention."
"Monsters?" Claude's interest was piqued. "You're sure?"
"I saw them with my own eyes. Twisted and unsightly they were. Those plucked chickens have been using those monsters to keep other gangs in check, even to scare the city guards. They come in only when things get really ugly. It's why no one's touched the Falcons directly, no matter how much territory they've grabbed."
Claude's mind raced, piecing together the puzzle. These creatures could be linked to the subspace. They may even be a type of Voidspawn. If so, it was worse than he thought.
He let a moment of silence hang between them, then spoke. "If you can deal with the Grey Falcons, I'll help you with these monsters."
Thibault's eyes narrowed. "How do I know this isn't some trick? You expect me to believe a freak like you is willing to help us out of the kindness of your heart?"
"I'm not doing this for you." Claude's voice was cold. "But those creatures? They'll kill you eventually, and if I don't stop them, this city will fall apart. You can play it safe and wait for your death, or we can eliminate the Falcons together. It's your choice."
Thibault stood there, tense, his fists clenched. He clearly didn't trust Claude, and who could blame him? But the reality was unavoidable. If he did nothing, the Grey Falcons—and whatever those monsters were—would swallow him whole.
There was no way in hell they would just let bygones be bygones and ignore all their previous conflicts.
After a long pause, Thibault's shoulders sagged in reluctant acceptance. "Fine. I'll do it. But don't think for a second I trust you..."
Claude stepped back, the ice spears melting into nothingness. "You don't have to trust me. Just stay alive long enough to finish the job."
Thibault turned around, seething in rage, but made no move as Claude left. Yet, his words, drenched in venom, reached Claude's ears as he faded into the night.
"Damn abomination… just wait!"
Claude didn't respond. He didn't need to. Thibault's anger was irrelevant. All that mattered now was the fight ahead. The Falcons—and their monsters—were the true threat. And Claude wasn't about to let them have the upper hand.
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Claude returned to the inn under the cover of darkness, his thoughts focusing on the confrontation he'd had with Thibault.
Yet, the tension that had coiled in his chest during the night's events refused to unwind.
He still did not know if what he was doing was right? Or, if he should even bother to take part in this farce.
There was still too much at play—too many unknowns, too many dangers.
He had resisted the temptation to storm the Grey Falcons' headquarters tonight. Thibault's warnings of those twisted creatures, combined with his own lingering suspicions, had been enough to stay his hand.
Caution, for now, was his ally. Charging in without understanding the full scope of their power would be suicide, and Claude wasn't one to gamble recklessly. Not when the stakes were this high.
As he slipped quietly into the dimly lit corridor of the inn, he still remained alert. Something was off. The faint creak of a door caught his attention, and out of the corner of his eye, he spotted two figures moving furtively toward the back exit.
Jean and Anne.
The innkeeper's very own son and daughter were sneaking away into the night. Claude's eyebrows creased.
What could they be up to at this hour?
He'd been living under the same roof as them for weeks now, and though they both seemed a bit odd, he didn't really plan on looking too deep into it.
But...
The note's odd reaction clawed its way out of his memories, jumping onto his chain of thought.