The shadow moved first—a wisp of darkness slithering down the wall, silent as death. Dio closed his eyes, his senses splitting between his own body and the shadows. Through its "eyes," he saw the pair of thugs clearer than ever: one bald and scarred, the other jittery and sweating.
He pushed the shadow farther, testing its limits. At ten meters, he could still feel it as an extension of himself. At twenty, the connection wavered, faint but usable.
A sharp whistle echoed in the distance, startling the thugs. Dio's shadow darted back to him like a snake, and he inhaled sharply as the connection snapped into place.
"Not bad," he muttered, though frustration tinged his voice. Still can't touch anything, though. Just a pair of eyes and ears.
The strength passive was easier to test. A few days ago, he'd pried a rusted metal bar from a scrap heap and practiced swinging it. The weight felt insignificant now, his movements faster and stronger. He'd even cracked an old crate in two with a single blow.
Strength and stealth. They won't know what hit them.
...
Dio knew that direct confrontation with armed gangs was suicide, even with his new abilities. So, he decided to hit them where it hurt most—their wallets.
For the Original Brigade, he chose their gambling den.
Disguising himself was simple. He scavenged a tattered cloak and smeared his face with soot, becoming just another faceless beggar. He slipped into the den during the chaos of a drunken fight, his shadow scouting ahead.
Through its senses, Dio spotted the stash of coins behind a makeshift bar. The barkeep's back was turned, distracted by the brawling men. Dio moved quickly, spilling a small vial of oil he'd stolen earlier onto the floor near the bar.
Moments later, a torch fell. Flames licked at the floorboards, and chaos erupted. Shouts of "fire!" drowned out everything else as the gang scrambled to salvage their money. In the confusion, Dio slipped out, leaving a trail of destruction behind him.
For the West Bull, Dio targeted their smuggling route. Over several nights, he mapped their movements, learning when and where they transported goods. He positioned himself along a narrow alley they often used, setting up a makeshift tripwire from a discarded rope.
When the gang's cart hit the trap, the mule bucked, overturning the load. Dio's shadow darted ahead, confirming the contents: crates of weapons and stolen goods. The gang members scrambled to recover their wares, only to find themselves ambushed—not by Dio, but by the local guards who had been tipped off anonymously.
...
With tensions high and losses mounting, both gangs were desperate to find the culprit. Dio spread rumors in the slum, disguising himself as a drunkard and muttering to anyone who'd listen about a rival gang planning a big deal in the abandoned warehouse district.
Both gangs took the bait.
Dio arrived first, setting the stage. His shadow scouted the area, confirming entry points and hiding spots. Using scraps of metal and broken furniture, he rigged crude traps: tripwires, collapsing beams, and even a pile of rubble balanced precariously on a ledge.
When the gangs arrived, armed and furious, chaos erupted almost immediately. The first trap—a tripwire—sent a West Bull enforcer sprawling, his firearm skittering across the floor. The Original Brigade thugs took it as a sign of aggression, and gunfire echoed through the warehouse.
Dio watched from the rafters, his shadow slipping between the combatants, feeding him a perfect view of the carnage below.
...
Dio waited until both gangs were bloodied and retreating, their leaders shouting orders in frustration. Then, he made his move.
From the shadows, his voice boomed, low and menacing.
"You thought you ran this slum?" he growled, disguising his voice by speaking into a rusted pipe. "You're nothing but roaches to be crushed."
The gang leaders froze, their eyes darting around the darkened warehouse. Dio's shadow loomed larger, unnatural, and menacing, cast by a flickering torch he'd deliberately placed.
"This is your warning," Dio continued, letting the shadow flicker and shift as if alive. "Leave the slum, or be erased."
He threw a chunk of debris, shattering a lantern and plunging the room into near-total darkness. The gangsters panicked, retreating with shouts of "It's a demon!" and "We need to regroup!"
As the last of them fled, Dio leaned back against the wall, exhausted but exhilarated.
"They'll think twice before making trouble again," he muttered, a rare smirk on his face. And if they do… I'll be ready.