The Rift Chronicles: The Neon Contract

The rain hammered Old Detroit, a relentless curtain of gray slicing through the neon bleed of signs and rift scars overhead. Elias Voss stood motionless beneath a dying streetlamp, its hum a faint counterpoint to the storm. His long black coat—kevlar threads glinting under the wet sheen—hung heavy, water tracing the scars on its leather. He didn't check his watch. Time didn't matter when the job was this dirty. His gray eyes, cold as slate, scanned the alley across the street, unblinking. The machete at his hip pulsed faintly, runes etched into its titanium blade catching the light. Under his arm, a suppressed SIG Sauer P320 waited, silver rounds chambered. Monsters didn't care about noise, but humans did.

Apex Corp had called it a "discreet" contract. Triple pay. Elias knew what that meant: blood, silence, and no questions. The suit who'd hired him—pale, twitchy, reeking of cheap cologne—had slipped him a photo in a diner two nights back. A dealer, some kid in a hoodie hauling a duffel of ghoul parts. Elias had burned the image and walked out. Loose ends were for amateurs.

Movement flickered in the alley. The mark slunk out, hood up, bag clutched tight. Sulfur hit Elias's nose even through the rain—ghoul stench, rancid and unmistakable. He stepped forward, boots silent on the slick pavement, a shadow among shadows. The dealer didn't see him. Not yet. Elias kept his pace steady, hands loose, the predator's calm settling over him like a second skin.

Old Detroit was a corpse of a city, gutted by The Breach eighty years ago and left to rot. Rift scars tore the sky, leaking purple light and worse—creatures that didn't belong. Downtown glittered with corporate spires, but here in the fringes, it was all cracked asphalt and despair. Elias had been born in this muck, raised by it after a wendigo ripped his family apart. He didn't dwell on it. Memories were a luxury he couldn't afford.

The dealer twitched, glanced back, and caught a glimpse of Elias's silhouette—tall, unyielding, coat billowing like a storm cloud. Panic kicked in. He ran, bag swinging, disappearing into the alley maze. Elias didn't curse or hesitate. He followed, strides long and deliberate, navigating the wet brick and trash with a hunter's ease. The chase ended fast. The kid tripped, spilling claws, teeth, and a vial of black ichor that hissed as it ate the pavement.

Elias loomed over him, planting a boot on his chest, machete drawn in a single fluid motion. The runes flared blue, casting a harsh glow on the dealer's face—young, scarred, terrified. He didn't speak, just pressed the blade to the kid's throat, letting the weight ask the question. "Shrike's crew," the dealer rasped, voice cracking. "Pier 17, docks. That's all I got."

The Shrike. Elias's eyes narrowed, but his face stayed stone. The name was a thorn in the city's underbelly—crime lord, monster broker, a ghost with a silver tongue. He shifted the machete, drawing a thin bead of blood. "What's he want?" The kid whimpered, "Dunno—just the runner. Swear it." Elias held the gaze a moment longer, then stepped back, blade returning to its sheath with a soft click. The dealer stayed down, trembling in the puddle. Weak prey.

He crouched, inspecting the spill. Ghoul claws, fresh enough to stink, and that ichor—too potent for street junkies. The Shrike was building something. Elias pocketed the vial, kicked the rest into a drain, and stood. Pier 17 was a trek, deep in dockside rot where the rift scars burned hottest. He'd need a plan. His phone buzzed—unknown caller. He answered with a grunt.

"Voss." A woman's voice cut through, sharp, edged with mockery. "You're late." He didn't flinch. "Who?" he said, tone flat. "Mira Kade. Apex sent me. Said you'd need help with the Shrike." A pause, then a dry chuckle. "Guess they forgot to mention me." Elias stayed silent, letting the rain fill the gap. "What's your play?" he asked finally. "Same as yours," she said. "Cash. Survival. Dockside diner, thirty minutes. Move."

The call died. Elias tucked the phone away, face unreadable. Apex pulling strings didn't surprise him—corporations loved their games—but a partner did. He worked alone. Always had. Trust got you a knife in the back, and he had the scars to prove it. Still, The Shrike wasn't small-time, and triple pay bought a lot of patience. He adjusted his coat and walked, the city's neon swallowing his shadow.

The diner squatted on the docks' edge, a relic of grease and flickering lights. Elias pushed in, rain dripping from his frame, and spotted her: dark hair pulled tight, leather jacket over a hoodie, coffee steaming in her grip. She lounged in a corner booth, smirking like she owned the place. "You look like death warmed over," she said as he slid in across from her, voice steady despite the quip. He didn't reply, just met her gaze—gray eyes locking on hers, unyielding. The waitress dropped a black coffee his way. He drank, grimacing at the bitterness.

"What's Apex want?" he asked, low and direct. Mira leaned in, matching his tone. "They're rattled. Shrike's got a rift key—or so they think. Big enough to scare the suits." Elias's brow twitched, the only sign he'd heard. Rift keys were fairy tales, relics said to control the scars. "Doubt it," he said, voice like gravel. She shrugged. "They don't. We hit Pier 17, find out."

He set the mug down, fingers resting near the machete's hilt. "You fight?" Mira's smirk widened, a faint spark of violet flickering in her palm—magic, raw and restless. "Better than you'd guess." He nodded once, a rare concession. "Stay out of my way," he said, rising. She laughed, soft and sharp. "You first."

Outside, the rain pounded on, rift scars pulsing overhead. Elias didn't trust her, didn't trust Apex, didn't trust much of anything. But he'd faced worse alone and walked away. The Shrike was next. He moved into the night, a stoic titan in the storm.