The sky was black, as always.
The rain, too, was falling without pause, as usual.
On Nostramo it rained often, but without thunder or lightning — only furious torrents of water.
On Nostramo, the rain was like that.
It wasn’t a natural phenomenon.
It was runoff that the aristocrats dumped from the Upper Hive.
Among the multi-tiered spires, countless heaters waited patiently.
They had no consciousness, but their program was set.
All their lives, they waited for these rains, waited for them to turn into condensed steam.
In the last moments of their existence, this rain, in a different form, would slowly rise back up again.
It would pass through ancient machines, quietly transported through rumbling pipes, and eventually become heating for the aristocrats, so that they, clad only in human skin, could dance gracefully in their magnificent palaces without losing their decorum.
That was the best description of Nostramo’s ecosystem: all benefits went to the aristocrats, while the people of the Underhive were left to be burned by the acid rain, choked by the stench, and eventually turn into rotting corpses in the sewers.
Kariel was still sitting on the enormous gargoyle.
He was in a cloak, and the acid rain couldn’t harm him.
Although the smell was still acrid, it was tolerable.
He looked down, and the sight of the chaos reigning below brought a cold smirk to his pale face.
As he had expected, the Ghost had made the mistake every novice hunter makes: he focused on the enemies in front of him, forgetting those still lurking in the shadows.
Carelessness is enemy number one.
Hunters may come and go in the darkness, but that doesn’t mean the darkness accepts them.
In truth, the darkness could itself turn into a monster at any moment and devour their flesh.
Kariel stood up, his cloak rustling slightly in the wind.
He didn’t intend to interfere, only watched coldly.
As he had said, this was a hunt belonging to the Ghost alone.
However…
He shook his head with a cold smirk, and for a moment, an icy blue light flickered in his eyes.
…
Run.
The Ghost darted between dark, wet walls.
He used his hands and feet, climbing from one roof to another, leaping across rain-slicked tiles.
Sometimes, alarmed, frightened shrieks came from under his feet.
But more often, he was met with bullets.
Sometimes he fell into a pile of trash or a muddy puddle, then, scrambling out, continued to run.
He didn’t stop for a single second.
But it didn’t help.
The pursuers had been chasing him for half the night.
And, apparently, they had no intention of stopping.
They tirelessly chased him on some fast two-wheeled machines.
The Ghost didn’t know their name, nor did he want to.
He had more important things to do.
Amid the curtain of rain, the gunfire never ceased.
Bullets whizzed past, several times flying within a centimeter of his head.
Harsh shouts rose from the streets, mixing with the roar of engines.
Passing through the veil of rain, they no longer sounded like human voices.
The Ghost didn’t understand.
He didn’t understand why they were so persistent, why they were so insane, and how they managed to maintain such sharp eyesight while constantly under the influence of drugs.
But…
The Ghost thought Kariel was right.
He really should have been quieter.
He had killed that woman, but there were still many more to kill.
Kariel had said they needed to wipe out the entire gang.
So he had left that room and started killing in that ominous three-story building.
Everything was going smoothly, no one noticed him.
He was like a breeze that swept through the corridor, carrying away the warmth of life.
But he had forgotten one thing.
He had forgotten to close the window.
The downpour rushed inside, the wind flung the window open, and it slammed against the wall with a crash.
The floor gradually became wet from the acid rain, which, mixing with the blood, seeped under the carpet, then through the floor, dripping onto someone’s head.
From that moment, everything went wrong.
When the alarm and screams pierced the night’s silence, the Ghost realized something was about to happen.
His premonitions were always right.
He immediately decided to leave, but it was too late.
He’d been spotted.
At first, there were only a few scattered pursuers.
A few minutes later, there were more than thirty.
Half an hour later, the number had passed a hundred.
And now, in the Ghost’s estimation, at least four gangs were chasing him.
They didn’t even know what had happened, but they loved using violence.
It was an acquired right, the opposite of oppression, the end of suffering.
They happily joined in, racing through the night for the flesh of a stranger, shouting excitedly and killing every innocent person who crossed their path along the way.
For no reason.
It was like a carnival, but he wasn’t a participant, only the prize, so he started to run.
Every person learns to walk, and then to run, and he was no exception.
He had learned to run long ago, without any teachers.
It was just that in the past, his superhuman endurance hadn’t let him feel the fatigue of running.
Now the Ghost felt it.
His breathing became heavy, his heart beat so fast that it was hard to maintain his balance while moving.
His hearing also began to fade, leaving only a monotonous hum.
Rain poured from the sky, soaking his clothes and leaving winding streaks on his pale skin.
Many of them even streamed from the corners of his eyes and dripped from his chin.
To an ordinary person, they would have caused a burning pain, but to the Ghost, they were merely warm.
But he didn’t want that.
He didn’t want them to warm him.
While running, the Ghost involuntarily let out a low growl.
It was born in his throat, but was unfamiliar to him.
For the first second, he even mistakenly thought some monster was growling at him from the darkness.
The next second, he realized it was his own voice.
“And then came the pain.” It surged from his back, an infernal pain, so strong that he could barely resist, could barely breathe, could barely maintain a clear thought.
He could no longer keep his balance, his hands flailed in the rain, and he crashed heavily onto the asphalt roof.
“I’m bleeding,” the Ghost thought in agony.
He couldn’t ignore this brutal fact: blood was, in a way, equal to life.
He valued it, but was powerless to hold it back.
In the haze of consciousness, the Ghost suddenly heard their voices.
“Farewell, farewell, farewell.
Foolish child, we are leaving you, the darkness will embrace you.
Welcome it.” “No.
Don’t go.
Please.” The Ghost let out another indistinct growl from his throat.
This wasn’t the first time a bullet had hit him.
A long time ago, when the Ghost still lived in the mine and ate rats, the mine owner had shot him with a cheap rifle.
A few seconds after the bullet pierced his flesh, bringing pain, the Ghost, who couldn’t even speak back then, understood that he had been shot.
He didn’t even need to think, the knowledge suddenly appeared in his mind.
And behind it — even more cold words: the type of weapon, the caliber of the bullet, what to do after the injury…
This time was the same.
He lay on the cold roof, and a few unfamiliar terms surfaced in his mind.
One of them was extremely necessary for him at that moment, but the Ghost paid them no attention.
He just wanted to get up and keep running.
That was his biggest mistake of the night.
“I have to get away.” “I have to…
get away from the darkness.” His thoughts were in disarray, so when he felt a strong, flesh-tearing pull and pain in his back, the Ghost suddenly snapped to.
And realized one thing.
What had embedded itself in his back wasn’t a bullet.
“Gotcha!” “No.
No.
I can’t…” The Ghost’s eyes flew wide open, and he let out a piercing roar.
The pain clouded his vision with a bloody haze, and worse, something was pulling him down.
What’s down there?
He didn’t know.
The ground?
Or trash bins in a dirty alley?
Or maybe a hundred armed gangsters eagerly waiting for him?
He had no time to think.
He started to fall.
The Ghost crashed heavily to the ground, but quickly scrambled up and, clinging with his hands and feet, climbed the wall again, desperately trying to escape.
“You’re not getting away!” someone crowed.
“Try this, you bastard!” The next moment, there was a sharp roar of an engine, and he was pulled down again.
The Ghost was torn from the wall with a howl.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw three of those two-wheeled contraptions he was being chased by.
A black cable stretched from his back to the front of those machines.
The pulling force was coming from them.
“Kill him!” In the dark alley, someone was shouting furiously: “Skin him, hang him up, and let him bleed out!” “I want his head, I want his head!” “Shoot him!
Shoot him in the legs!
Let’s see if he can still run!” “Better yet, fry him!
I want his meat!” “I have to get out.” “I have to…
get out of here, get away from the darkness.” Amid the chaos of thoughts, only these two things echoed in his head.
The Ghost roared, swinging his arms, trying to drive these monsters away.
But it was futile, his hands swiped through the air, his sharp claws dug into the wall, not touching anyone’s flesh.
“He’s still moving!” someone shouted.
“Then put some heat on him!” A sharp pain, and his consciousness plunged into darkness.
The Ghost watched its approach with utter despair.