The night was still, the only sound a soft wind that swept through the streets, carrying the faint scent of rain. Aran stood in the dim light of an abandoned warehouse, staring at the old, rusted door. His trap was set, but something about this situation made him uneasy. He had lured enemies before, but never one like the Seeker. The man was more than an assassin—he was a predator, a master of hunting the clever and the cautious.
Aran glanced around, ensuring everything was in place. He had spread the word through Vera's network: he was vulnerable, losing control of his operations, and had retreated to this old, forgotten warehouse in the eastern district to regroup. It was a half-truth. Aran was indeed in a weakened position, with the Puppeteer tightening his grip on the city's power, but he wasn't desperate—not yet.
He had instructed his allies to remain hidden, their weapons ready to strike. Each corner of the warehouse was fortified with small traps, designed not to kill but to disorient and confuse. Aran needed the Seeker alive, needed answers that only he could provide. But he also knew that the Seeker wouldn't be easily caught.
The minutes ticked by slowly. Aran remained calm, his senses attuned to the faintest changes in the air around him. He was prepared for the possibility that the Seeker might not come, that he had seen through the ruse. But if the assassin had taken the bait, tonight would be their first true confrontation.
A soft creak echoed through the stillness, and Aran's eyes snapped to the door. A shadow slipped through the crack, silent, barely visible. He watched, his muscles tensing, as the figure moved with unnatural grace, gliding toward him like a wraith. This was it—the Seeker.
Aran remained motionless, his heartbeat steady as the assassin drew closer. The Seeker wore dark, form-fitting clothing, his face concealed by a mask that left only his eyes visible. Those eyes were cold, calculating, like a hawk surveying its prey. Aran could see why the man's reputation was so fearsome. He was a predator, in every sense of the word.
"You've been watching me for some time," Aran said, his voice calm but edged with challenge. "Why not come out from the shadows sooner?"
The Seeker paused a few feet away, his gaze unwavering. "I prefer to learn before I act," came the quiet reply. His voice was smooth, measured, revealing nothing. "You've proven…interesting."
Aran narrowed his eyes. "Interesting enough to kill?"
The Seeker's head tilted slightly, as if considering the question. "That depends on the outcome of tonight."
Aran gave a small, humorless smile. "Then let's make this night worth your time."
In a fluid motion, Aran flicked his hand, and the traps around the warehouse activated. Blades shot from hidden compartments in the walls, wires tightened to ensnare the assassin, and small bursts of smoke filled the room to cloud his vision.
But the Seeker was fast—faster than Aran had anticipated. He dodged the blades with lightning reflexes, his movements precise, almost inhuman. As the wires whipped through the air, he twisted his body, avoiding the deadly embrace by mere inches. Within seconds, the assassin had moved through the maze of traps, untouched and unshaken.
Aran cursed silently. This wasn't going to be easy.
The Seeker approached again, his steps silent as he closed the distance between them. Aran reached for a dagger hidden beneath his cloak, knowing full well that in a direct fight, he was outmatched. But he didn't need to win this fight—he only needed to buy time.
"You're faster than I expected," Aran admitted, gripping the dagger tightly.
"And you're smarter than most of my targets," the Seeker replied, his voice devoid of emotion. "But you've made one mistake."
Aran raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"You assumed I came alone."
A chill ran down Aran's spine, but he didn't let it show. He had considered the possibility of the Seeker having allies, but he hadn't seen any signs of other operatives. He remained calm, assessing the situation. If the Seeker had backup, they hadn't revealed themselves yet, which meant they were likely watching, waiting for the right moment to strike.
Aran decided to play for time. "Tell me something, Seeker," he said, his tone casual. "Who hired you? Was it the Puppeteer? Or are you working for someone else?"
The Seeker didn't answer immediately. Instead, he seemed to weigh the question, as if deciding how much to reveal. "You're too curious for your own good, Aran," he said at last. "But I'll tell you this: the person who hired me isn't the one you think."
Aran's mind raced. If it wasn't the Puppeteer, then who? The list of potential enemies was long, but few had the resources to hire someone as skilled as the Seeker. He needed more information, but he wasn't sure if the assassin would give it willingly.
"Then let's make a deal," Aran said, his voice steady. "I can offer you something far more valuable than whatever you're being paid."
The Seeker's eyes narrowed behind his mask. "What could you possibly offer me?"
"Information," Aran replied. "I know things about this city—about the Puppeteer, the council, and the underworld. Things that could change the balance of power. I can help you get what you want."
The Seeker didn't respond immediately. He studied Aran for a long moment, his eyes cold and unreadable. Then, without warning, he moved. In an instant, he was upon Aran, his hand closing around the dagger before Aran could even raise it.
"I don't need your help," the Seeker whispered, his voice low and dangerous.
Aran felt the cold blade of the assassin's weapon pressed against his throat. He was trapped, but he didn't panic. Instead, he focused on the details—the way the Seeker's breath was controlled, the subtle tension in his body. The assassin was confident, but there was something else there, something deeper.
A weakness.
Aran's mind worked quickly. The Seeker was dangerous, but he wasn't invincible. Aran had faced predators before, and he knew that even the most skilled hunter had a blind spot. The trick was finding it.
"You may not need my help," Aran said calmly, despite the blade at his throat. "But I can still be useful to you. You're after more than just a contract, aren't you? You want something bigger."
The Seeker's grip tightened for a moment, then relaxed slightly. He leaned in close, his voice a soft whisper in Aran's ear. "Perhaps."
In that moment, Aran knew he had found the assassin's weakness: ambition. The Seeker wasn't just a hired killer—he was a player in the game, just like Aran. And that meant he could be manipulated.
The question now was whether Aran could turn the Seeker into an ally—or if he would have to kill him first.