Kyro didn't know how he knew.
He just did.
In that breathless sliver of time, he didn't think. He moved.
Right foot pivot. Half-step back. Shoulder turn.
The sequence flowed through him—sharp, fluid, automatic—like muscle memory borrowed from a life he'd never lived.
Then it happened.
A streak of muted grey and midnight blue ripped through the crowd like a blade through fog. Kyro's head snapped aside just in time to catch a glimpse of a stormglass-teal mask—sleek, angular, featureless save for two slanted eyeholes—and the ripple of a long coat trailing a lithe figure.
She moved like lightning. Fast. Precise. Unstoppable. Actual sparks of electricity crackled along her limbs, snapping and fading with each stride. Add to that the pair of cold, lavender eyes tracking Kyro in real time, and the image was unmistakable.
A harbinger of death, given flesh.
Was there surprise in that gaze? Awe, even? Whatever it was, it sent a chill skittering down Kyro's spine. That look told him she would have blasted straight through him, no hesitation, no restraint, if not for his last-second shift.
Relief hit first. Then dread. Then confusion. Then, unexpectedly, exhilaration. All within a single heartbeat.
But as quickly as it came, the moment was gone.
The woman skimmed past him, a faint arc of force brushing his chest like a blade's whisper. She landed several paces ahead, knees bent, boots skimming the pavement to bleed off momentum. Without slowing, she veered into a side alley and vanished, dissolving into the city's underbelly as if she'd never existed.
For several seconds, Kyro didn't move.
Even as the world resumed its rhythm around him, he stood frozen, heart hammering like a war drum against his ribs.
What—what the hell was that?!
He didn't need confirmation. A fraction of a second slower, and they'd have been scraping what remained of him off the pavement! And nobody had even seemed to notice!
Also, one teeny-tiny detail: how the hell was he still standing?
That dodge. That reaction. It wasn't normal. Not for someone like him. Certainly not for a normie.
His heart hadn't fully settled when agony detonated behind his eyes.
Pain tore through his skull, sudden and vicious, like liquid fire flooding his neural pathways.
"Ahh!" The cry ripped out of him as he clutched his head and dropped to his knees. Where the pain he'd woken with had been overwhelming and unrelenting, this was sharp and precise, white-hot pressure driving inward, sending his thoughts splintering apart.
He fought it hard, forcing the sound down and clamping his jaw shut. But the damage was already done.
All around him, murmurs rose. Heads turned. Midday in a packed city meant privacy was a myth. Most onlookers spared him brief, apathetic glances before moving on. A few, though, lingered, curiosity flickering behind their eyes.
"Great," Kyro muttered through clenched teeth. "Real subtle. Way to stay under the radar."
By some small mercy, his neck gaiter hadn't shifted during either the near-miss or his outburst, preserving at least a shred of anonymity. Once again, the absurdly versatile strip of cloth proved its worth.
Being near a major intersection helped too. The crowd was thick, constantly in motion, a living tide. Perfect cover for anyone looking to disappear.
Or so he thought.
He was just pushing himself upright when a firm hand closed around his shoulder from behind.
"You okay there, kid?" a baritone voice asked. "Need a hand?"
Kyro exhaled slowly, scrubbing the last traces of pain from his expression before turning. He braced for a desperate street vendor or a scheming pickpocket; New Taranis had both in spades.
The man facing him was neither.
Tall without being imposing, his lean, well-conditioned frame suggested a youth spent more in training yards and field exercises than in libraries. Somewhere in his late twenties or early thirties, pale, flawless skin was set off by sharp features and long, luxurious blond hair. A pair of emerald-green eyes gleamed with a shrewd intelligence that immediately put Kyro on edge.
The grin didn't help. Too easy, too knowing, too practised.
His attire struck a careful balance between professionalism and utility: a high-collared charcoal coat subtly reinforced at the seams, layered over a slate-grey tunic and tailored trousers. A silver emblem—a stylised fist grasping a lightning bolt—gleamed over his right pectoral. Kyro didn't recognise it, but authority radiated from it all the same.
"That was quite the manoeuvre back there," the man said smoothly. "Not every day one sees someone move with that kind of fluidity in this part of town."
Kyro said nothing, eyes narrowing.
This wasn't a hustler. Too clean-cut. Too composed. Too observant. And the way he carried himself—casual, yet tightly controlled—spoke of a background far removed from street-level games.
The conclusion settled in Kyro's gut like a stone.
An Ascendant.
He almost laughed.
Another one.
What was it with him lately? Bad luck? Worse timing? Or had he somehow become a magnet for trouble?
"I'm fine," Kyro said, forcing a polite smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Can I help you?"
"Right. Forgive my manners." The man reached into his coat and produced a sleek black card, extending it between two fingers.
"The name's Dalken Morlen. Independent Contractor."
He smiled as though they were old acquaintances.
"Mind if we chat?"