"Okay, so Hell's Kitchen it is," I muttered to myself, staring out the grimy window of my apartment. "I can make a name for myself here… and get some shadow soldiers."
Pulling on a plain hoodie and jeans, I made sure to leave the apartment without drawing attention. The streets were alive with their usual chaos—sirens in the distance, the occasional shouting match, and the ever-present hum of a city that never truly slept. I kept my head down, slipping into an alleyway where no cameras could catch me.
Once out of sight, I tapped into my powers. Shadows swirled around me, forming a black, almost liquid-like material that reshaped into a new outfit. The hooded cloak was dark as night, with faint violet accents that pulsed like veins. A mask of shadow formed over my face, obscuring my identity entirely.
I stepped back into the main street, this time sticking to the rooftops. Jumping onto a nearby fire escape, I climbed with practiced ease, finally pulling myself onto the roof. Up here, the city stretched out before me—a maze of opportunities.
"I need soldiers," I whispered, summoning my bow with a flick of my wrist.
While leaping between rooftops, I spotted a group of pigeons perched on a ledge. Perfect. With one smooth motion, I drew and loosed an arrow, the projectile finding its mark. The bird's body dropped to the rooftop, lifeless.
I knelt beside it and extended a hand. "Arise."
The shadows rippled, and the pigeon's body dissolved into black mist before reforming. Its eyes now glowed with a faint violet hue, and its movements were unnervingly precise as it hopped onto my arm.
"Find others like you," I commanded. "And bring them to me."
The bird took off, its glowing eyes vanishing into the night sky.
I repeated the process several more times as I traveled. Pigeons, crows, even a stray raven that crossed my path—all of them were added to my growing ranks. With each kill and resurrection, I felt a strange connection to them, as though their senses were now an extension of my own.
The city was vast, but my shadows had begun to map it out for me. Gang hideouts, drug dens, and suspiciously fortified buildings—all potential targets.
"Hell's Kitchen," I murmured to myself, crouched on a rooftop and surveying the streets below. "Let's see what you've got."
The shadow birds flew in organized patterns, their glowing eyes scanning the alleys and rooftops. Whenever one of them found something, the connection would tug at me like a thread, pulling me toward my prey.
It didn't take long to find a target. The warehouse stood on the edge of Hell's Kitchen, surrounded by cracked pavement and graffiti-streaked walls. It looked like any other abandoned building—if you ignored the steady stream of men coming and going, most of them armed.
Crouched in the shadows of a nearby alley, I extended a hand, and the shadows at my feet writhed like living things. The mice and birds I'd gathered earlier materialized, their glowing violet eyes fixed on me.
"Alright," I whispered, pointing toward the building. "Scout the area. Show me weak points, entrances, exits… and how many people we're dealing with. Stay out of sight."
The creatures dispersed silently, the mice skittering into cracks and crevices while the birds took to the sky. I closed my eyes, letting the connection pull me into their senses.
Through the eyes of a shadow pigeon, I saw the layout of the exterior. Two large steel doors at the front served as the main entrance, guarded by three men with assault rifles. They stood stiffly, their eyes scanning the street for any signs of trouble.
Around the back, things were sloppier. A smaller service door sat slightly ajar, with two men leaning against the wall, smoking and chatting. They were armed but distracted, and the area was poorly lit—a perfect weak spot.
The shadow mice slipped through cracks in the walls and gaps under doors, their small forms almost invisible as they moved. Inside, I could see the main floor: rows of crates stacked high, the air thick with the scent of oil and chemicals.
A group of six men sat around a table in the center, counting money and inspecting the contents of a crate—guns and ammunition.
I crept through the back of the warehouse, keeping to the shadows as my presence melded seamlessly into the darkness. The faint hum of muffled conversations drifted through the cracked door ahead. I summoned my bow, an ethereal weapon of shadow and intent, and notched a single arrow.
Two guards stood at the entrance, their eyes scanning lazily.
Thwip.
The first arrow struck the closest guard cleanly in the neck, his body crumpling to the ground without a sound. Before the second could even flinch, another arrow followed, precise and swift. He fell just as silently, his weapon slipping from his grip.
I approached their bodies, shadows swirling around me.
"Arise," I whispered.
Their corpses shifted, dark tendrils rising like smoke. Moments later, their forms solidified into shadowy silhouettes, their glowing eyes staring at me with unwavering loyalty.
"You two, secure this entrance," I ordered, their silent acknowledgment filling me with a sense of satisfaction.
I slipped inside, following the faint scuttling of my shadow-mice as they darted ahead. Their glowing eyes mapped the interior, revealing a web of crates, catwalks, and guards scattered across the room.
Guided by their senses, I found a staircase leading to an upper platform. The vantage point provided a clear view of the entire warehouse.
From here, I counted eight guards—each stationed strategically, though their focus was on the ground floor and entrances. They hadn't noticed me yet.
Perfect.
I drew my bow, shadows coiling as an arrow materialized.
Thwip.
The first arrow flew, striking a guard on the far side of the warehouse. He dropped like a puppet with its strings cut, his death unnoticed by his comrades.
Thwip. Thwip.
Two more arrows found their marks, each guard falling in swift succession.
The remaining guards finally noticed the danger, shouting and drawing their weapons, but they had no idea where I was. Panic spread like wildfire as they searched the shadows for a threat they couldn't see.
I moved quickly, firing arrow after arrow. The shadows seemed to guide my aim, each shot precise and lethal. One by one, the guards fell, their bodies littering the ground below.
The room fell silent, save for the faint hum of the warehouse's overhead lights. I descended from my perch, moving among the bodies.
"Arise," I commanded again, my voice low but firm.
The corpses twitched, then shifted, shadows coalescing into new forms. Soon, a small group of shadow-soldiers stood before me—silent, loyal, and ready to follow my every command.
I turned to my newly risen shadow guards, their glowing eyes awaiting my command.
"Secure the front doors," I ordered. "No interruptions. Bring all the money to me and burn the drugs. Make it quick."
The shadows moved with eerie precision, silently obeying. Two of the guards pushed a heavy crate in front of the main entrance, effectively sealing it. Others began sweeping through the warehouse, locating the stashes of cash and narcotics.
I opened a portal near the center of the room, connecting directly to my apartment. I had left a shadow-mouse behind to anchor the link, its small form ensuring I always had an escape route.
The guards worked efficiently, tossing the money into bags and carrying them into the portal. The scent of gasoline hit my nose, followed by the sharp crackle of flames. One of the shadow guards had ignited the piles of drugs, the flames quickly devouring the illicit goods.
As the fire began to spread, I heard banging at the front door.
The real guards were back.
"Time to go," I muttered.
I gave a sharp whistle, and my shadow soldiers began dissolving into smoke, retreating into my form. The money was already safely stored in my apartment, and the last shadow-mouse scurried back to join me.
With one final glance at the warehouse, now alight with the orange glow of fire, I stepped into the portal.
Back at the Apartment
The portal closed behind me as I stepped into my small, rundown living space. The bags of money were neatly stacked in the corner, a testament to the success of the raid.
I dismissed my shadows, their forms evaporating as I leaned against the wall, catching my breath.
Hell's Kitchen had taken notice of me tonight. But this was only the beginning.
The Morning After
The first rays of sunlight crept through the cracks in the blinds, illuminating the apartment. I sat on the floor, cross-legged, surrounded by the bags of cash my shadow soldiers had retrieved. Counting it all wasn't necessary—I knew it was more than enough to change my situation.
For the first time in years, I wasn't worried about my next meal or how I'd keep the lights on. But I couldn't let this money sit idle. It was time to plan.
Sitting in the dim light of my apartment, I stared at the piles of cash. It wasn't just money—it was a liability. I couldn't just walk into a bank and deposit it. That would raise too many questions.
If I wanted to use this money without drawing attention, I needed a plan.
First, I needed a legitimate front—a business to filter the money through. Using the shadows, I began gathering intel on small businesses in Hell's Kitchen that were struggling to stay afloat.
It didn't take long to find the perfect candidate: a small, family-owned diner that was barely scraping by. The owners had no connection to crime and a solid reputation in the neighborhood.
Through an anonymous lawyer I hired online, I offered to invest in the diner. I positioned it as a silent partnership, providing them with the funds to renovate and expand in exchange for a small share of the profits. They accepted eagerly, never questioning where the money came from.
With the diner as my front, I began filtering small amounts of cash into their revenue stream. The trick was to keep it subtle—just enough to avoid suspicion.
A significant portion of the cash went toward legitimate renovations for the diner—new furniture, better equipment, and advertising. These expenses helped justify the influx of funds.
I made anonymous donations to local charities and community projects, building goodwill and further muddying the money's origins.
While the diner took off, I opened a personal bank account using a clean portion of the money. By depositing small amounts over time and using the account for legitimate transactions, I built a financial trail that appeared normal.
Once the diner became profitable, I began looking for other opportunities. A struggling laundromat, a failing bookstore—each became another piece of my growing network.
Each business provided more ways to filter the money, and more importantly, they created jobs and resources for the community. It wasn't just about cleaning the money—it was about building something meaningful.
I kept a low profile, avoiding flashy purchases or extravagant behavior. The businesses operated independently, and I ensured none of the owners knew each other.