A thunderous barrage of rain descended from the night sky, dancing in blustering swells and swirls of wind. In The Gardens, a man sat on the soaking wet floor, leant against a broken wall. A man unmoved by the cold and unconcerned by the events to which he bore witness. There yet totally unseen, he blended into the grey, a mere vagrant begging for scraps. A devious and dangerous guise. Hidden in his cold blue eyes was relentless and murderous intent, resting on one man. Marcus.

He watched intently as his prey staked a wooden torch of fire into the mud and hissed in low tones to a giant man wielding a meat cleaver. The talking ceased and he spat in the giant’s face. Four Crocheads waving metal bars circled the giant, like agitated snakes ready to strike. The giant sent a ferocious kick into Marcus’ chest and swung his cleaver. As he moved to intervene, he saw Marcus roll free, and the rumble of an engine, followed by a woman’s shrieks, disrupted the giant. Curious for the Captain of the Guard to attend at a low-level moonshine tax violation, he thought. For a brief moment, he forgot himself as he considered helping the giant, who was now face down in the mud. His woman, who Captain Brunner had just slapped and sent spinning into the wall of the shack, clutched her knees and sobbed.

Under a thick grey woollen blanket wrapped about the man’s shoulders, his concealed hands rested lightly on a sawn-off shotgun sitting in his lap. His fingers yearned for the trigger. He idly stroked the stock. He would love to stride over there and put Marcus out of his misery, and he’d take great pleasure in dealing painful deaths to the pack of jackals baying for blood behind him. Such a shame he needed Marcus alive, and he harboured no grudge toward the City Guard. He’d rather not have to kill them needlessly. He felt a surge of bloodlust pulse through him.

For seven years, he had been hunting. Now he had lost count of the number he had tortured and killed. It started out with Crocheads. In the beginning, he had set out on a rampage, a killing spree fuelled by boiling anger and hatred. A furious force of relentless brutality. He rode the waves of The Panic, taking advantage of the chaos. He murdered Croc-addicted men and women, without hesitation or remorse. The dead piled up, but his pain never subsided. His murderous desires never satiated.

He harnessed his once untameable fury in a tentative pact. He became cold and calculating, stalking his prey. A lone wolf, hungry yet patient. His victims once chosen at random now each served a purpose, each one bringing him closer to the end he longed for.

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First addicts, then runners and dealers, vanished in the night by his hand. Ripped away, as though they had evaporated into the smog. But they always surfaced. He made sure of it. For what good was his work if his message went unheard? He glanced up to the huge window in which he had stood not thirty minutes prior. In the dim firelight, a silhouette of a man, strung up in chains.

Marcus was next.

He would come up with something special for him. A low-down piece of scum deserved to die as one. He slipped his hand onto his belt and took the handle of the rail stake, which hung there. He would wait until this unjustified oppression was over, and then he’d continue his stalking. He needed Marcus to leave, so he could continue his work and identify the best time and place to snatch him away.

He shuffled on the crinkly blue tarpaulin laid down beneath him. Relentless rain tipped and tapped on the tarp and tinged on the tin can in front of him – a beggar’s livelihood that held no coins, only rainwater. The falling drops from the peak of his cap periodically dropped and sploshed, joining the rest.

So cold. It was wet and uneasy. Frightened eyes in the dark, watching the scene, belonged to the people of the nearby slums. He saw them, yet they didn’t see him. He was invisible. Melded into the grey concrete and scrap and lingering sorrow.

The woman’s sobbing intensified, stirring him from his thoughts. He watched closely as Captain Brunner kicked the giant away from him, back down into the mud. Seconds later, a bloody laugh spluttered from the giant's mouth that sparked fury on the captain’s face. The loud crack of gunshot sounded. A red mist rose over the giant's face and danced in the drizzle.

Uncalled for. Murder didn’t move him. He’d lost count on his death toll years ago. But he only killed when warranted. He didn’t execute civvies in cold blood, only Crochead bastards and those in his way. He felt his anger swell. But he wasn’t here for this. Just another sad story in a city full of them.

The man watched on as the jackals tore the shack apart, whooping with glee as the lockbox opened. The rattling of coins falling to the ground and their copper clinks chimed through the air. Marcus stepped towards the woman. She rocked back and forth now, humming uncontrollably and staring blankly off to the horizon. Marcus clasped both of his wicked hands to her face, wrenching her to her feet, and his serpent tongue hissed out from his mouth and licked her neck. He pulled back and bared his teeth at her.

Then an arrow thundered into his shoulder.