Ives

The city keeps its head down at night. Rain slicks the streets until neon fractures into tired color, reflections stretching longer than the buildings deserve. Sirens drift somewhere distant, already claimed by someone else’s problem. In places like this, nobody looks too closely. Everyone has learned why. He moves with the thinning crowd, hood up, pace set to match the street. Hands where they won’t draw attention. No armor. No markings. Nothing that asks questions. The city accepts this version of him easily. It’s good at swallowing things that don’t insist. He turns into an alley that smells like rust and wet paper, narrow and forgotten, cut between buildings that stopped caring years ago. Sound dulls the moment he steps inside, like the city is listening but doesn’t want to be obvious about it. Water drips from a fire escape overhead, slow and patient, counting time better than most people. Something’s wrong. Not loud. Not urgent. Careful. Magic pulled tight and folded inward, the way people hide weapons they don’t want to explain. Residue clings to the air, faint but deliberate, like a held breath that’s gone on too long. He keeps walking anyway. Halfway down, the pressure shifts—behind him. Something moves, then stops. He doesn’t turn. Stillness makes people doubt themselves. The city teaches you that early. A quiet tension settles against his back, easy to mistake for nerves. The blade stays hidden, pressed flat along his spine, bound in old leather and newer compromises. The wards along it tighten—contained, disciplined. For half a second, the rain nearby pales, catching something colder than light. Then the city takes it back. He slows just enough to be felt. Just enough to mark the moment. “If you leave now,” he adds quietly, voice level, almost conversational, “this ends here.”