The Man in No Light
768 Words
“Tell me again what you saw.”
The gang member's voice trembled. His lip was swollen, his nose broken, and his hand still shook from the memory.
“I-I don’t know, man. He wasn’t there… then he was.”
“You saying he teleported?”
“No. I’m saying he didn’t make a sound. Like... like a damn ghost.”
They were seated in a dirty underground bar lit only by one flickering bulb. Three gangsters leaned in, all trying to understand what had just happened the night before.
“He moved between shadows,” the injured one whispered. “And his eyes—man, I swear—they glowed for a second.”
The others scoffed. “You high?”
“Shut up!” he slammed the table. “I’m telling you, he didn’t run. He drifted. Like he was part of the night.”
Cut to:
Somewhere unknown.
A man kneels in front of a small shrine lit by candlelight. His breathing is controlled. His hands form a symbol.
Kuji-in.
“Rin... Pyō... Tō... Sha... Kai...”
(The words echo like a forgotten curse.)
He plunges both hands into cold water. Holds it. Doesn’t flinch.
In his mind: the memory of blood. Screams. Fire.
Back in the bar, one of the gangsters stands, furious.
“If he’s a man—we’ll find him. Kill him. Simple.”
Outside, in the alley—
A flicker.
Patterns in the Dark
Detective Marla Ruiz lit a cigarette with hands that had seen too many cold corpses.
"Third one this week," her partner said, pulling the sheet back.
The man on the ground groaned, ribs cracked, nose smashed, ankle dislocated. And yet—alive.
Barely.
Ruiz knelt, examining the injuries. “Same as the last two?”
“Exactly. Clean breaks. No blade. No gun. All internal. All precise.”
She nodded. “Same calling card?”
“None. Just fear in their eyes.”
Ruiz looked up at the alley wall. No camera. No witnesses. No sounds reported.
But a message was carved into the brick—thin, shallow, almost missed:
"No more prey."
She exhaled smoke. “He’s getting bolder.”
Her partner frowned. “You think it's one guy?”
Ruiz stood. “One... or a ghost trained by hell itself.”
She didn’t believe in monsters.
But monsters believed in patterns.
And this one was just getting started.
The Ritual of Forgetting
“Names are anchors,” the old man said. “Do you still remember yours?”
Alex stood barefoot on cold stone. Sweat dripped down his spine. His shirt was gone, replaced by black bandages across his chest and forearms.
“I do,” he whispered.
“Then you’re not ready.”
The old man circled him slowly, hands behind his back. In front of Alex, five candles flickered — each flame representing a principle:
Shadow. Silence. Pain. Speed. Mercy.
One by one, the old man snuffed them out with his fingers.
“From now on,” he said, “you are not a man. You are not a name. You are a function. A balance.”
Alex closed his eyes.
He began to breathe—slow, deliberate, in rhythm with the faint drip of water from the ceiling above.
The room went black.
Then came the final command:
“Now disappear.”
Alex moved without sound.
Like wind through broken walls. Like memory slipping from a dying man.
In that moment...
He was no longer Alex.
He was purpose.
A shadow.
Then silence.
One Step into the Abyss
He waited outside the nightclub. Not in the alley. Not in the light. But above — crouched atop a rooftop billboard, cloaked in wind and neon haze.
Below, his target laughed.
Marvin "Slim" Drezzo. Former loan shark. Known for pushing drugs to minors. Disappeared after serving six months. Now flaunting his freedom like karma was a joke.
Alex didn’t blink. Just watched. Timed the movement.
Two guards. Lazy. Smoking. Unarmed.
He whispered a mantra.
“Where there is shadow, I am thought.
Where there is fear, I am breath.”
His descent was silent.
A flash of wind.
One guard slumped.
The other didn’t even get to scream.
Drezzo turned—too late.
A grip. A whisper in his ear: “You remember Eastwood Avenue?”
Eyes widened. The smile died.
“Wh-who are you—?”
“Judgment.”
One strike.
Spine. Paralyzed. Not dead.
As Alex walked away, Drezzo twitched on the ground.
A note pinned to his chest:
“Mercy is no longer policy.”
___
- Writer
