The flickering gaslight painted the rain-slicked alley in shades of sickly yellow and inky black, highlighting the crimson stain spreading across the cobblestones. Kai knelt beside Ren, his best friend, his breath ragged, a choked sob tearing from his throat. Ren's eyes, usually sparkling with mischief, were glazed over, a gaping wound marring his chest, a testament to the brutal efficiency of the Grotesque. The expensive silk of Ren's shirt was soaked through, the fabric clinging to his lifeless form. Ren, with his infectious laugh, his love for tailored suits, and his uncanny ability to charm even the grimmest of city officials, was gone. Killed by a creature born from the city's festering underbelly – a Grotesque.
Kai's fingers tightened around a shard of broken cobblestone, his knuckles bone-white. He wasn't strong. He wasn't fast. He wasn't a warrior like Ren, who'd trained since childhood in the ancient arts of monster slaying. But Ren, in his dying breath, his voice barely a whisper, had entrusted Kai with a mission: avenge him.
The weight of that promise felt crushing, a physical burden pressing down on his chest. He was Kai, a nobody, a small cog in the vast, terrifying machine of Veridia, a city choked by shadows and secrets. How could he possibly avenge his friend against creatures that could rend steel like parchment? Grotesques were born from the city's darkness, fueled by its despair, and they were relentless.
A guttural growl ripped through the silence. Another Grotesque, larger and more grotesque than the first, emerged from the shadows, its eyes burning with malevolent intelligence. Its skin was a patchwork of decaying flesh and exposed muscle, its limbs contorted into unnatural angles. Fear, cold and paralyzing, seized Kai. He was about to become another victim, another stain on the city's already blood-soaked streets.
Then, a blur of motion. A figure, clad in dark leather that seemed to absorb the surrounding darkness, moved with impossible speed, a phantom slicing through the night. The figure was a whirlwind of expertly executed strikes, a deadly ballet of precision and power. The Grotesque's roars turned into gurgles, its movements becoming sluggish, its monstrous form collapsing into a heap of broken limbs and decaying flesh.
The figure turned, revealing a man with a mischievous grin and eyes that glittered with an unsettling intelligence. He was tall, lean, and impeccably dressed, a stark contrast to the gruesome scene surrounding him. He looked as though he'd stepped from the pages of a high-fashion magazine, his tailored suit somehow immaculate despite the grime of the alley. He held a wicked-looking blade, its edge still dripping with ichor, the viscous fluid reflecting the gaslight's feeble glow.
"Well, well," the man said, his voice a smooth baritone that cut through the night's oppressive silence. "Looks like someone needs a hand."
Kai, still trembling, could only manage a weak nod, his throat too tight to speak.
"I'm Zephyr," the man continued, extending a hand, his smile unwavering. "And you are…?"
"Kai," he whispered, his voice hoarse with grief and fear.
Zephyr's grin widened. "Kai, it's a pleasure. Now, about that revenge… I'm not exactly a charity case, you see. This kind of work requires… compensation." He winked, a glint of something sharp and calculating in his eyes.
Kai stared at him, bewildered. This wasn't how he'd imagined his savior. He'd expected a stoic warrior, a grim figure shrouded in mystery. Not a flamboyant mercenary who seemed more interested in his fee than in justice.
"But," Zephyr continued, sensing Kai's hesitation, "I do have a soft spot for a good story, especially one involving a friend's death and a burning desire for revenge. Consider this… an investment."