He raised his boot and struck it firmly against the rooftop. The heavy thud echoed through the tense silence, a sharp sound that seemed to reverberate through the very air.
Suddenly, from the balcony below, a creak followed by shuffling footsteps drew attention downward. Emerging from the shadows of the floor beneath were two peculiar figures.
The first was a slim, skinny man, his angular frame draped in a black widow's skirt and a mismatched blouse, complete with a lace collar that fluttered slightly in the breeze. A thin scarf wrapped around his head failed to fully obscure his sharp jawline and scraggly stubble—a poor attempt at passing himself off as a woman. Despite the odd getup, his movements were surprisingly nimble as he climbed toward the rooftop.
Next to him, a shorter figure followed, his appearance even more bizarre. He was dressed in oversized, brightly colored boy's clothes—a striped shirt and suspenders paired with knee-length shorts. The image might have been convincing if not for the bushy beard covering his face, which made the entire disguise unsettlingly comical. The man adjusted the suspenders as he climbed, his movements clunky as if the ridiculous outfit didn't faze him in the slightest.
The two figures hauled themselves onto the rooftop, pausing briefly to glance around. Then, sequentially, from the surrounding edges of the rooftop, more figures began to appear. The soft sounds of boots and gloves scraping against the building's surface multiplied as shadows moved out, each figure scaling the walls and pulling themselves up onto the roof.
In moments, the space was teeming with over a dozen men, their presence swallowing the tension and replacing it with the weight of raw numbers. Each one moved fast, their faces obscured by hoods, bandanas, or improvised masks. Some carried crude weapons—pipes, knives, and even chains glinting faintly in the low light—while others came armed with nothing but their fists and an air of menace.
"Iron Fangs goons?" Zach exclaimed, his voice cracking slightly as his eyes darted around the rooftop. His usually composed demeanor wavered as he took in the dozen thugs closing in on them, their weapons glinting faintly in the low light.
The ten black-robed figures surrounded by the Iron Fangs thugs shifted into fighting stances, their movements tense. In one hand, they each drew a curved dagger, sharp and deadly. In their other hand, they gripped sleek wooden blowpipes, small, potent tools of stealth and lethality. Their eyes flickered nervously from left to right, scanning for an opening, a path to escape the tightening circle of hostile bodies.
The leader of the black-robed group, identifiable by his calm demeanor and the faint silver stitching along the edges of his hood, stepped forward slightly. His voice was low, it carried over the rising tension. "So this is why you chose this rooftop," he said, directing his words at Vince. "The middle of the harbor—a high vantage point to overlook the chaos below. And you borrowed the shadow team from our boss just to lure us out of the way. Clever."
He paused, his voice lowering further, almost as though he were speaking to himself. "But you underestimated us. We won't go down without a fight. There's a reason we're called the Shadow."
No sooner had the words left his lips than ten plumes of smoke exploded into the air. The sound was muted, like faint pops, but the effect was immediate and overwhelming. Thick clouds of white and yellow smoke billowed outward, swallowing the entire rooftop in an instant.
The smoke was dense, clinging to the air like a suffocating blanket. It blurred the silhouettes of the figures within, reducing them to little more than vague outlines. The yellowish tinge added an unsettling, almost toxic quality to the haze, making it difficult to breathe without coughing.
Zach stumbled backward, his hand instinctively covering his mouth and nose. "Shit! What the hell is this stuff?" he coughed, his voice muffled by the smog.
The black-robed figures moved swiftly and silently, their forms barely discernible within the swirling mist. Their daggers glinted faintly as they shifted, their movements almost ghostlike. The Iron Fangs thugs cursed and shouted, their voices distorted and disoriented in the chaos of the smoke.
"Die!" a thug screamed, his voice raw with desperation as he raised his knives high above his head. He lunged at a dark figure in the smoke, his movements reckless and driven by panic.
"Wait! Wrong target! Ally! Ally!" another thug yelled, his voice trembling as he raised a length of chain defensively in front of him. His words barely registered over the shoutings.
"Stop getting in my way!" the knife-wielding thug grunted, shoving past his comrade with a snarl.
Then, like the flicker of a blade slicing through the air, a dashing light cut across the smoke. It was so fast, so silent, that for a moment the chain-wielding thug froze in place, his eyes wide with shock. His trembling finger pointed at the man in front of him, his lips stammering unintelligible words.
"What the fuck are you looking at? Find those bastards!" the knife-wielding thug barked, his voice dripping with irritation as he waved his blade in frustration. But then he paused.
Something was wrong.
A strange warmth spread across his chest, quickly followed by a wetness that soaked through his shirt. He looked down slowly, his hand instinctively reaching toward the sensation. His fingers touched the fabric of his shirt, now slick and sticky with crimson. His breath caught in his throat, a dry, rasping sound as he realized he couldn't inhale.
His chest heaved desperately, but the air refused to come. His throat felt constricted, as if an invisible noose had tightened around it. His hand trembled as he looked at the blood staining his fingers, the vivid red blooming across his chest like a sinister flower.
His knees buckled, and his body swayed forward. That's when he felt it—a line of burning pain across his neck. His free hand shot up to his throat, clutching at the wound, but it was too late. The cut was deep, precise, severing the vital flow of life.
The world around him blurred, the thick smoke and dim light blending into an incomprehensible haze. His legs gave out entirely, and he collapsed to the ground with a muted thud. His head hit the gravel-strewn rooftop, his eyes staring blankly at the swirling smoke above.
Blood pooled beneath him, seeping into the cracks of the roof. His gasps slowed, fading into silence as the suffocating grip of death closed in completely. His lifeless body lay still, his throat slit cleanly from one side to the other—a gruesome consequence when facing the shadowy figures still moving through the smoke.
The chain-wielding thug stumbled back, his breathing ragged, his chest rising and falling as panic clawed at his mind. The veil of the smoke was relentless, the swirling yellow and white haze making it impossible to tell friend from foe. He gripped the chain tighter, his knuckles whitened, the heavy links swaying slightly in his trembling hands.
"Where are they?" he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, fear cracking through his words. His eyes darted wildly through the thick fog, every shadow twisting into a phantom, every faint sound a threat. "Come on, you bastards... show yourselves!"
The air felt suffocating, the dense smoke pressing against his lungs as sweat poured down his face. His instincts screamed at him to run, but his legs refused to move, frozen in place by terror. A faint rustling sound came from his left, and he spun toward it, his chain swinging in a wild arc through the empty air. "Stay back!" he shouted, his voice cracking, trying to sound menacing but failing miserably.
And then he felt it—a faint prick on his arm, so small it could've been mistaken for an insect bite. He froze, glancing down in confusion. A small, delicate needle was embedded in his forearm, its thin shaft barely visible against his skin. His breath hitched, his heart hammering in his chest as he grasped the tiny object, yanking it out with trembling fingers.
"The fuck is this?" he stammered, his voice barely audible. He stared at the needle in his hand, the faint glint of its tip catching the dim light through the smoke. Then it hit him—a wave of dizziness crashing over him like a tidal wave. His grip loosened, and the chain slipped from his hands, clattering to the ground.
His knees buckled, and he staggered back, his vision blurring as the edges of his world began to twist and spin. "No... no, no, no..." he gasped, his voice choking on the words as his throat began to tighten. His legs felt like lead, his body swaying as if the rooftop beneath him had tilted.
He clawed at his throat, his breath rasping as it became harder and harder to draw air. A cold sweat drenched his skin, and his heart pounded erratically, each beat slower than the last. His limbs grew numb, the strength draining from his muscles as he fell to his knees.
"Help... help me..." he croaked, his voice barely above a whisper now. His head swayed, his eyes unfocused as he tried to make sense of the shadows moving in the smoke. His body pitched forward, collapsing onto the rough rooftop with a dull thud.
The poison worked fast, silencing his heart and stealing the last whisp of life from his body. His wide, terrified eyes stared blankly into the smoke filled sky above, his final expression frozen in fear. The needle, so small yet so lethal, lay beside him.
A cacophony of noise erupted on the rooftop—the sound of blades clashing, feet scuffling against the gravel, and muffled grunts as bodies collided. The once-tense standoff dissolved into chaotic, close-quarters combat, the smoke obscuring any sense of order or control.