The night air hung heavy over Satellite. Peacekeeper Captain Ironclaw stood amidst the dim glow of flickering street lamps, his gaze fixed on the two bodies sprawled on the alley. The dark cloaks of the Peacekeepers were now stained with blood, the resplendent crosses tarnished and dull. Their heads were missing, deposited on the rooftop where the old market was.

"Captain, we've secured the perimeter," a subordinate reported.

Ironclaw didn't immediately respond. His red eyes scanned the scene, taking in the aftermath. Whoever did this was skilled—or lucky. He knelt beside one of the fallen men, his gloved fingers touching the cold skin near a deep laceration. A rough cut with an irregular pattern, but effective nonetheless.

"Any witnesses?" he finally asked, rising to his full height.

"None have come forward, sir. The locals are... uncooperative."

A mirthless smile tugged at the corner of Ironclaw’s mouth. "Uncooperative. Imagine that." He turned to face the cluster of shacks lining the alley, their windows shuttered, doors bolted tight. Shadows flickered behind tattered curtains—eyes watching, waiting.

"Lock down this sector," Ironclaw ordered. "No one enters or leaves without my express permission. Increase patrols and have all units report any suspicious activity immediately."

"Yes, sir."

As the subordinate moved away, Ironclaw felt a simmering anger beneath his calm exterior. Not hot and wild, but cold and sharp—a blade honed over years of cynicism and hard choices. He'd seen death before; it was an occupational hazard. But the murder of his men was a direct challenge to his authority, a gauntlet thrown at his feet.

He surveyed the surrounding once more, noticing a scuff mark on the ground—a footprint leading away from the scene. Small, likely a woman's. Unusual.

"Hey you," he called out to one of his subordinates.

A stout man hurried over. "Sir?"

"Gather a forensics team. I want every inch of this alley examined—footprints, fibers, blood samples. If the killer so much as breathed on a wall, I want to know."

"Understood, Captain."

Stolen story; please report.

Ironclaw glanced upward. The rooftops connected in a maze of rusted metal and rotting wood. An agile person could navigate the slum unseen from above. His mind ticked through possibilities: Blighted insurgents or perhaps even an inside job.

"Also," he added, "compile a list of all known Blighted in this sector with abilities that could have been used here. Cross-reference it with recent troublemakers and anyone with a grudge against the Peacekeepers."

"Right away, sir."

As the man departed, Ironclaw allowed himself a brief moment to let the weight of the situation settle. The Blighted of Satellite were always on the brink—desperation breeding defiance. He couldn't afford to show weakness; order had to be maintained.

He walked over to a nearby wall, noticing a smear of blood at shoulder height. Pulling out a handkerchief, he dabbed at it, then folded the cloth carefully. Another piece of the puzzle.

"Captain Ironclaw," a voice called from behind.

He turned to see Peacekeeper Lieutenant Graves approaching, his expression grim. "What is it?"

"Command wants a report within the hour. They're... concerned about the implications."

"Of course they are," Ironclaw replied dryly. "Tell them the situation is under control."

Graves hesitated. "And is it?"

Ironclaw met his gaze steadily. "It will be."

Graves nodded slowly. "Understood."

As the lieutenant left, Ironclaw felt a twinge of irritation. Command was always quick to express concern but slow to provide support. He was on his own out here, as always.

He took a final look at the bodies before signaling for them to be removed. Lives cut short—men who had trusted him to lead. He wouldn't forget that.

Walking away from the scene, his mind mapped out the next steps. Interrogations would begin immediately. Perhaps a public demonstration of strength to remind the populace of the Peacekeepers' authority.

As he moved through the narrow streets, the residents parted before him, their eyes cast downward. He caught snippets of hurried whispers, the flicker of fearful glances. Good. Let them be afraid.

A cynical smile played on his lips. "All this over a dead king," he muttered to himself. "Fools chasing ghosts."

But even as he dismissed the thought, he couldn't shake the nagging sense that something larger was at play. The timing was too convenient—the death of the so-called Blighted King and now this act of defiance.

"Captain," a young officer jogged up to him, slightly out of breath. "We've detained a group of suspects.”

Ironclaw raised an eyebrow. "Did they resist?"

"One tried to run. We... subdued him."

"Good. Bring them in. Perhaps they'll be more forthcoming than the rest."

The officer nodded and hurried off.

Ironclaw stood there for a moment, his gaze drifting over the dilapidated buildings, the tangle of wires crisscrossing above, the murky puddles reflecting the fractured world around them.