Act I — "Snake Eyes in Velvet Halls"
The neon outside Eros Black buzzed like a dying insect caught in the last pulse of twilight. A low hum vibrated through the club's hollow bones, flickering across the black walls like ghosts too restless to sleep.
Phantom stood by the warped bar counter, hands raised mid-gesture, finishing the last part of his impromptu crash course in sign language. His fingers moved with effortless control—precise, sharp, like they were slicing through air rather than shaping words.
This is "hello."
He signed it slowly, deliberately, with the grace of someone who didn't care who was watching—but knew someone always was.
"If you're gonna greet someone," he said, voice half a smirk, "might as well act like you give a damn."
Reaper mimicked the motion—his own hands slower, heavier, like carving symbols into wet concrete. No grace. But focus like a blade held at the throat.
Phantom leaned back with a faint grin, tapping the edge of the bar with a single knuckle.
"Not bad," he muttered. "You memorize like a killer. Little off tempo, though. Like you're dancing to a song nobody else can hear."
Reaper signed something back.
You gonna take these files, or should I?
Phantom arched an eyebrow, then responded with quick, flicking gestures.
You take 'em. Double-check the plan. Trust your freaky eyes more than mine.
Reaper narrowed his gaze behind the mask. Didn't catch the last part.
He pulled out the battered notepad from his coat, scribbled in sharp strokes:
Just say it with your damn mouth.
Phantom sighed, pushed the folder across the counter. The pages slid like knives across the old wood.
"You take the files," he said aloud. "Check it again. I trust your psycho-eye vision more than my own."
Reaper gave a nod. He snapped the silvercase open, tucked in both sets of files—his and Phantom's—until they were one weighty document of death. The latches clicked shut like closing a tomb.
He turned back, signed again with a question: You not coming?
Phantom walked behind the bar, grabbing a bottle with no label and a glass that looked like it had seen too many nights.
"Nah," he muttered. "I'm staying. Need to drink like a human for once. Mask comes off when the world turns its back, and you, my friend, are the world right now."
Reaper paused. Then flipped his notepad around one last time, tearing a page free and handing it across.
Phantom read it. Then blinked, once. A sharp exhale escaped through his teeth.
The note read:
Yeah yeah, whatever you say… Power Ranger.
Phantom looked up, stunned beneath the helmet. "The hell did you just—"
But Reaper was already turning. Already walking. Already halfway through the exit like a shadow with intent.
The bar door groaned open.
And the city hit him like a fever dream.
Grayhaven was bathed in violet neon and streetlight static. The air tasted like ozone and oil. Skyscrapers loomed like broken teeth under a hemorrhaging sky. His watch buzzed faintly—7:34 P.M.
He crossed the cracked road under a rain of flickering signs and digital decay, heading toward a crooked old relic of a building. A rusted sign buzzed above the doorway like a drunk prophet whispering riddles.
VINCENT'S — Time is a Lie, But At Least It Ticks.
As he walked, he felt it—just faint enough to ignore but strong enough to set alarms ringing in the bones.
A presence.
A rhythm behind his own.
Light steps. Careful ones. The kind meant to disappear.
Reaper didn't look back.
Didn't reach for his revolver either. Not yet.
Instead, he stepped into the clock shop, dragging the night in behind him like a hungry dog.
The air inside was thick with dust, brass, and time.
Clocks of every shape lined the walls, their ticking overlapping into one long, mechanical heartbeat. The scent of oil and old wood curled beneath the surface—but deeper still, if you listened, you could smell gunpowder, grease, and something like ash.
The bell overhead gave a tired, suicidal ding.
Behind the counter stood Vincent—violet hair tied back like a samurai who lost the war but stayed drunk anyway. He looked up, eyes scanning the mask, the coat, the silvercase.
He didn't speak at first. Just stared.
"…You here for art shopping?" His tone was sharp. Testing.
Reaper pulled the notepad again, scratched something fast.
I've been here before. You don't remember?
Vincent's eyes dropped to the military watch clipped on Reaper's wrist. For a second, something flickered there—recognition, a ghost of memory that slipped through the cracks.
"…Oh," he finally said, voice softening. "It's you."
Reaper flipped the notepad one more time.
I'm here to taste your art. The kind that steals souls.
Vincent chuckled. Dry, cold.
"Still dramatic as hell," he said. "I like that. Dead men should be poetic."
He moved to pull back the curtain toward the real shop—the one buried under the tick-tock façade.
Then the bell rang again.
A silhouette slipped in through the door. She didn't walk—she glided. Her presence sliced through the room like a razor through silk.
Black coat. Thigh-high boots. Form-fitting dress patterned with faint crimson roses. A silver snake mask, shimmering in the dim light. And short dark hair curled against the jaw like a blade.
No weapons visible.
But everything about her was a weapon.
She passed Reaper without a word—close enough to brush his coat—and produced a sleek, black card. Set it on the counter.
Vincent's brows lifted.
"...VIP," he murmured. He glanced back at Reaper, tone shifting. "Wait here."
Before stepping behind the curtain, the woman paused—just enough to angle her head toward Reaper. Her voice was cool silk dipped in venom.
"Reaper," she said softly. "An honor."
Her accent curled the words. Japanese? Or maybe something else. Something older.
Reaper didn't respond.
But in the corners of his mind, something clicked.
She was the one following me.
Or maybe just another killer drawn to Vincent's underground forge like a fly to a fuse.
She vanished into the back with Vincent.
Reaper didn't follow. Didn't move.
Just sat down in the cracked velvet chair by the wall, silvercase at his feet, head lowered like a statue built for war.
He waited.
And the gears behind the mask kept turning.
ACT II — "GUNS LIKE ART"
The cracked velvet chair groaned under Reaper's weight, its faded red fabric peeling like old skin. He sat motionless, arms draped on the rests, posture relaxed but vigilant. Time seemed to bleed, stretching across the room in thick, silent threads. A lone bulb overhead swayed gently, casting intermittent halos over his owl mask—light and shadow dancing like ghosts across cold iron.
Beside him, the silver case waited. Quiet. Sealed. Patient. Like a loaded secret.
Minutes passed. Then hours.
Still, Reaper didn't move. Stillness was part of the job. A learned patience. A sharpened silence.
Then—
A soft click echoed behind the counter. A hidden door parted. From its dark threshold emerged the woman in the snake mask.
She walked like a shadow pretending to be human—graceful, coiled, effortless.
But this time, she didn't look at him.
Not a glance. Not a word.
She moved past him like he didn't exist.
Smoke ignoring fire.
Vincent followed her out, watching her vanish into the dying light. He paused, then turned his eyes toward Reaper.
"This way," he said.
Reaper stood. The velvet chair creaked again, protesting the release of his weight. Then silence reclaimed the room.
Behind the counter, Vincent led him through a narrow passage of clocks—grandfather clocks, wall clocks, busted alarm clocks—all ticking or frozen in forgotten time. They lined the shelves, floors, and ceiling, a forest of mechanical hearts still beating in fractured rhythm.
They stopped before an old grandfather clock, its hands frozen at 3:33.
Vincent opened its glass face.
Fingers spun the hour hand backward with a deliberate, grinding twist.
Click.
A soft mechanical hum. The wall beside the clock shifted with a muted hiss, revealing a hidden corridor carved in pitch black.
No words.
They walked in.
The hallway whispered dust and time. The air thinned. Reaper's boots echoed softly on the concrete floor. At the end, an elevator waited—rust-bitten, ancient, barely holding itself together.
Vincent entered. Reaper followed.
As they descended, the elevator shuddered and whined like an old man clearing his throat. A cold hum filled the small space.
Vincent broke the silence. "Quiet today. Unlike the guy I remember."
Reaper reached into his coat. Pulled the notepad. Scribbled a reply.
Impressed. You hide this place well.
Vincent read it, smirked.
"That's why Vincent's still standing in a city full of burning ash and bleeding clocks. I don't sell guns. I sell discretion."
Ding.
The elevator doors parted.
Darkness greeted them—velvety, dense. Vincent flicked a switch on the wall.
And the dark exploded into light.
Rows upon rows of weapons emerged under flickering fluorescents.
It was a temple. A vault. A church of violence.
Assault rifles lined the walls like paintings in a forgotten gallery. Pistols in custom leather cradles. Knives beneath bulletproof glass. Shotguns with carved stocks. Sniper rifles arranged like sleeping dragons. The air was rich with oil, sweat, and steel.
Vincent walked behind his counter—an altar surrounded by instruments of death.
"Welcome to the real shop," he said.
He rested both hands on the glass. "Now... what kind of art are you looking to taste?"
Reaper flipped open his notepad and wrote, careful and bold:
Something that shoots in bursts. Strong grip. Solid weight. Built for war.
Vincent nodded. Walked toward a rack. Pulled down a rifle and handed it over.
"ZT-09 Carbine. Lightweight body. Steady recoil. Built for run-and-gun. She sings when she breathes fire."
Reaper held it. Lifted it to his shoulder. Tested the weight, the grip, the rhythm of it in his palm. It felt honest. Violent. Familiar.
He nodded once. Set it down.
Next message:
Something short. Deadly. Party-sized. But hard to read.
Vincent chuckled under his breath. He opened a glass drawer and retrieved a matte pistol.
"ARC-21 Sidearm. Compact. Almost invisible in hand. Rarely jams. Hollow-point optional. It whispers pain."
Reaper clicked the magazine in. Then out. Checked the sights. Ran his thumb across the grip. Silent approval.
Another scribble:
Something that can make the blood spill… something to feel in your hand. Like tiger claws.
Vincent's grin widened.
He moved to a locked case behind him. Punched in a code. Opened it slow, reverent—like a priest opening the Book of Revelations.
Inside: handcrafted combat knives. Serrated edges. Curved steel. Obsidian handles. Blades designed to carve through flesh, bone, and memory.
Reaper took one. It fit perfectly in his grip. Like it had always been his.
He wrote:
I'll take this.
Vincent leaned forward, resting his forearms on the counter.
"How many magazines for your paintings, maestro?"
Reaper scribbled:
5 for the carbine. 4 for the sidearm.
Vincent whistled low, impressed. "No love for the extras? Mag holsters? Vest?"
Reaper answered with a swift, clear sign: Yes.
Vincent nodded. Moved with rhythm. Pulled together tactical gear with elegance, like a musician assembling an orchestra.
He stopped one last time beneath the counter. Reached down. Pulled up two flashbangs, carefully placing them in front of Reaper.
"A gift. First-time customer. Light for the darkness."
Reaper raised two fingers in silent thanks.
Then, the case opened.
The silver one.
Reaper knelt and unclasped the locks. Velvet-lined interior. Inside: five gold coins. Real currency in this city's shadowed symphony.
He placed them on the counter, one by one.
Vincent picked up four. Slid one back.
"Discount," he said. "For those who still speak with silence."
Reaper wrote one final note:
Deliver it. Edgeview Heights.
Vincent took the note, tapped it against his chest, and tucked it into his vest pocket with a smirk.
"Consider it already there—tomorrow, at your front door."
The lights above hummed.
The glow caught edges of blades, barrels, silencers. A room that breathed preparation. Purpose.
And Reaper stood there. Masked. Armed.
A quiet god in a cathedral of violence.
Ready to paint the night red.
ACT III — LAMPLIGHT REST
The elevator groaned upward through the bones of the antique shop, its rickety hum vibrating like a slow pulse between one assassin and a man who dealt in quiet services.
Vincent leaned against the back wall, arms crossed, eyes low beneath shadow. The overhead bulb flickered — a dying sun trapped in a cage of brass and dust.
"I heard you're working with Phantom tomorrow," he muttered. The words came easy, but the tone landed like a stone dropped into a deep well.
Reaper stood still, a masked silhouette. He pulled out his notepad — that familiar ritual — and scratched something sharp and clean onto the page.
I think the job is drawing eyes. Too many. This era's watching.
Vincent read it with a small smile, humorless. "This era's always watching. But some eyes are older than time. And some eyes… blink slow."
The elevator gave a final, metallic gasp. The doors opened into a corridor that barely existed — wallpaper peeling like skin, velvet curtains torn at the edges. The light was low and red, like a warning. Clocks lined the walls at uneven intervals, each one ticking out of sync, their soft clicks muffled but constant, like a dozen hearts trying not to be heard. Even the floor seemed to hum beneath the weight of time, thick with dust and forgotten footsteps.
Vincent moved with quiet steps to a grandfather clock in the corner. He twisted the hands back — 3:33, always. The sound that followed was mechanical but reverent, like stone slabs grinding in a crypt.
The hidden door behind them sealed shut. A soft thud — a memory buried alive.
They descended the back stairwell in silence. The shop was quieter now. Dimmer. Reaper moved toward the exit, suitcase in hand. The smell of burnt incense still lingered, clawing at the dark.
Vincent called after him.
"You shouldn't go home tonight."
Reaper stopped.
Vincent's tone had changed. He glanced at the antique wall clock — 9:10 PM — ticking away like a gun hammer being drawn back.
"There's a place. Not far. Few blocks west. Made for people like you. Like me."
He handed over a small, ivory card — crisp, clean, pressed with gold lettering that caught the room's last light.
LAMPLIGHT REST
316 W. Lantern Row — Rustyard District, Grayhaven.
"Ask for Room 321. Two coins. No names. No questions."
Vincent smirked, almost fond. "You'll like it. You won't trust it. That's the point. No one does. But it'll hold you for the night. And the old girl's got secrets of her own."
He added, with a tilt of admiration, "I've been there once — quiet place to reset when the world's kicking your teeth in. Real comfortable, if you can stomach the stares. Eyes are everywhere... but they can't touch you inside."
Reaper tucked the card into his coat pocket with a slow nod. Gratitude — unspoken, but felt.
And then he walked.
Grayhaven had changed.
Not in shape — but in soul.
The streets beneath his boots pulsed with color and violence. Red neon bled from club fronts. Blue police lights ghosted across graffiti-ridden walls. Somewhere far off, a saxophone cried like a widow.
He passed crumbling brick apartments, flickering gas stations, and corner kids who knew how to vanish in headlights. The kind of streets where dreams died face-down and nobody noticed.
And then he saw it.
Lamplight Rest.
It rose above the Rustyard skyline like a forgotten cathedral — brutalist concrete fused with glass and stain. The front glowed red, the windows blue. From afar it looked like a machine's broken heart, trying to beat again.
Inside, the lobby whispered old power.
Velvet wallpaper. Black marble. Chandeliers that flickered between elegance and malfunction. The scent was rich — cigar smoke, gun oil, lavender perfume. A world inside a wound.
Behind the counter stood a woman.
Her nametag read:
Lucille Vale
She was pale as porcelain and sharp as glass. Her eyes followed Reaper the moment he stepped through the door, as though she'd been expecting him since birth.
She ended her phone call without looking away.
"Welcome to Lamplight," she said. Her voice was satin dipped in venom. "One room. No name. No questions. You know how this works."
She slid a brass keycard across the counter.
"Room 210."
Reaper didn't move.
Instead, he wrote one line on the notepad and slid it back.
Requesting Room 321.
Lucille's brows lifted slightly. She studied him again — the coat, the mask, the way he didn't flinch in silence.
"Ah. You want that room."
She tapped her screen. A beat later, she handed him a different key, this one heavier, colder. "Room 321. Floor twelve. Payment?"
Reaper placed two gold coins on the counter. They gleamed beneath the overhead red.
She swept them into her palm like a magician closing a trick.
"How long?" she asked.
One night.
"Room service?"
Food. Drinks. Silence.
Lucille nodded, her lips twitching in amusement. "Of course. I'll send up the kind of silence you can chew through."
As he turned, she added one last thing — almost gently:
"Don't open any doors that don't belong to you, Reaper. Even silence has a price in this place."
The elevator doors hissed open.
He wasn't alone.
A man stood besides — massive, masked, built like a nightmare. His tiger mask glared forward, unmoving. His jacket was leather, stained at the cuffs. His fists looked like weapons that forgot they were human.
They said nothing.
Stepped in. The silence stretched.
The Tiger hit floor 2.
Reaper hit 12.
Silence.
At floor two, the stranger exited. Didn't glance back.
Reaper rode the rest of the way up alone.
Ding.
Floor 12.
The hallway welcomed him with rich darkness — dim sconces casting long shadows against wallpaper stitched with occult patterns. No voices. No cameras. Just whispers that didn't belong to anyone living.
He found Room 321.
Slid the key in.
The door opened like a sigh.
The room was blood-red and ocean-blue. The lighting pulsed low and slow — like breathing. Velvet furniture. Tall windows. A glass minibar. No TV. No clocks.
This wasn't a hotel room.
This was a memory carved into space.
Reaper placed the silver suitcase down.
Unclasped the mask.
Set it gently on the bed like a relic.
Then, he walked to the balcony and opened the doors.
Grayhaven exhaled.
The wind carried sirens and smoke. Jazz. Screams. The city was a wounded animal — too angry to die, too loud to live. Somewhere in the distance, the massive Vanta Club stretched into the night sky. Even from here, it looked alive. Pulsing.
A heartbeat waiting to rupture.
Tomorrow. Phantom. The Vanta job.
If it went wrong — it wouldn't just bleed. It'd scream.
Reaper stood still.
One last night of peace.
One final breath before the city swallowed him again.
And for now, that was enough.