The man's breath came in short, uneven bursts beneath Enark's heel.
Dust clung to his coat. His chest heaved violently with every attempt to draw air, pain threading through each inhale. His eyes darted wildly, searching for something—an escape, an opening, anything.
There was none.
Enark didn't move—not yet.
He stood over him with a stillness that felt unnatural, and in that stillness there was a quiet pressure that settled over the alley. Heavy and suffocating, pressing down just as firmly as the heel against the man's chest.
"You… wait—" His voice cracked. "You're the one from the docks…!"
Enark tilted his head slightly at the statement.
"…You're the guy who attacked our men."
For a moment, nothing changed—no shift in stance, no visible reaction—but then, just barely, something in Enark's posture adjusted, subtle enough that most would have missed it entirely.
"So you've heard of me."
The words were quiet, almost indifferent, as if the answer itself carried no real importance to him.
The man let out a shaky laugh that died in his throat halfway through. "Damn right I have. Because of you, we had to move our entire operation! Do you have any idea how much trouble that caused?!"
Silence answered him.
Then pressure.
Enark's heel pressed down slightly, just enough to force a strained sound from the man's throat.
"Good," Enark said, his tone unchanged. "That saves me time."
The man's breath hitched.
"Where's the new drop point?"
"I—I don't know what you're talking about—"
The pressure increased. Sharper and more direct.
Enark's heel dug in deeper, forcing the air from the man's lungs in a strangled gasp.
"Wrong answer."
The man choked, clawing weakly at Enark's leg. "W-wait! I told you—I don't—"
Enark's impatience began to boil over, his heel pressing deeper—listening to the rhythm of the man's heart.
"N-no…" he whispered, more to himself than to Enark. "That's—that's not—"
"Come on! I'm all ears, start talking!" Enark yelled.
A pause.
The man shook his head, trembling. "If I talk, I'm dead anyway…"
Enark's calm posture broke; he lifted his heel off the man's chest and grabbed him by the collar, pulling them face-to-face.
"Bastard! You guys kidnap innocent people, take them from their families---from their children! And still you dare to consider your own life!" Enark yelled angrily. "For once, in your God-forsaken life, do the right thing and tell me!"
The alley fell silent.
Even the distant noise of the city seemed to dull, fading beneath the weight of the moment.
His expression cracked, whatever resolve he had left slipping through trembling lips.
The man continued, words spilling faster now, desperate.
"They changed the route after what you did. Moved everything inland—away from the docks. Said it was too exposed now—too risky."
A slight pause.
Then—
"They're taking them to the old district. Abandoned sector—no patrols, no Enforcers. There's a building there—used to be a processing site or something, I don't know—"
His voice cracked again.
"Please… that's all I know…"
Enark listened carefully.
The man's heartbeat—still rapid.
Still afraid.
But in him, there were no lies. From his tongue, he spoke no deceit.
"…Location."
The man swallowed.
"…East side of the city, in District 17, past the broken canal. There's a collapsed watchtower—you can't miss it. The building's right behind it…"
He hesitated.
Just for a second.
And Enark heard it.
"…and?"
The man flinched.
"There are guards! More than the docks! I'm serious—this isn't like before! You go there alone, you're dead!"
Enark stood slowly.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then—
Enark let him go and began walking away.
"If anyone asks, you went home tonight. No one will know what you did. And if they do, I'll come help you."
The man looked up, stunned.
"W-wait…"
Enark stopped—but didn't turn.
"You… You're not seriously going to try and save those people?" the man asked, his coarse voice laced with disbelief.
A pause.
The faintest tilt of Enark's head.
"If not me. Then who?"
And just like that—
He was gone.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The rooftops stretched endlessly beneath him once more.
But this time—
There was no uncertainty.
No hesitation.
Now—
He had a destination.
The wind rushed past him as he moved, faster than before, each step carrying a different weight. The city blurred beneath his feet, lantern lights streaking into long trails of gold and amber.
His mind was quieter now.
Focused, as the scattered threads had finally woven into something solid.
A direction.
A place.
An answer.
The broken canal came into 'view' first—a jagged scar cutting through the city, its waters long since drained, leaving behind cracked stone and decay.
He slowed as he crossed into it, his steps softer now, more deliberate. The buildings stood like hollow corpses, their structures worn down by time and neglect.
Then—
The collapsed watchtower.
Just as described.
Leaning at an unnatural angle, half of its structure caved in, the rest barely standing.
And behind it—
A building.
Larger than the rest.
Enark stopped at the edge of a nearby rooftop, overlooking the structure below.
He could perceive them—the steady heartbeats of the guards, the scattered rhythms of the captives inside—and among them…
Eliot's mother!
The wind howled.
And Enark stepped forward—exhaling slowly.
"This is it."
A pause.
"This is where... the trail ends."