The Confessors Blade

Chapter 2 — Shadows

The rain had grown heavier, drumming on the cracked pavement like a warning. Neon lights reflected in puddles that stretched across the streets of New Helix, turning the city into a distorted maze of color and shadow. Matteo Cross melted into the crowd, coat plastered to his body, boots slick against the wet asphalt. He was just another shadow among many—except tonight, shadows had teeth.

His wrist communicator buzzed, a faint vibration against his skin. A single, encrypted message:

“The Syndicate knows. Be careful.”

Matteo’s jaw tightened. He didn’t respond. Words were useless in this city. Only motion mattered.

He ducked down a narrow alleyway, the walls slick with rainwater and graffiti, puddles forming at his feet. A flickering streetlamp above cast a dull yellow glow. And then he saw it—a shadow that moved unnaturally. Its edges rippled like liquid smoke, yet somehow solid enough to form the shape of a man.

A Wraith.

Matteo froze. He had heard rumors—assassins disappearing, bodies never found, whispers of sins made manifest—but he had never confronted one. Until now.

The Wraith advanced, gliding above the puddles without touching them. Its form shimmered, translucent, yet there was a weight to it, a cold that seemed to suck the warmth from the air. As it approached, Matteo could hear a faint whispering—dozens of voices overlapping, murmuring accusations, names, and crimes he had long buried.

Matteo drew his blade. Its curve caught the dim neon light, and for a brief instant, he saw the faint engraving of a cross on the hilt. He didn’t hesitate.

The creature lunged. Matteo rolled to the side, blade flashing. The Wraith recoiled slightly, then struck again. He slashed, the air slicing with an unnatural hiss as the creature’s form rippled. Each strike left a faint cross-shaped afterimage in the mist around it, a fleeting imprint of something ancient and holy.

From the shadows behind him, the unmistakable click of firearms drew his attention. Syndicate operatives had found him. The Wraith paused for a fraction of a second, tilting its head. Matteo understood—it wasn’t just hunting him. It was learning him, testing him.

The chase erupted. Matteo ran, vaulting over crates, ducking under fire. Bullets streaked past him, some shattering puddles, others striking the walls in sparks of neon reflection. He pivoted mid-roll, swinging his blade to cut through one assassin, then ducked a punch from another. Rain sprayed across his face, stinging, but he felt nothing—no fear, only the rhythm of survival.

The Wraith followed silently, weaving between the gunfire and chaos. Matteo realized that every time it got close, the whispers grew louder—echoes of sins unconfessed, sins he had buried under contracts and blood.

He dove through a broken doorway into an abandoned warehouse. Shadows clung to the walls, distorted by flickering fluorescent lights. Here, the Wraith moved freely, its form expanding and twisting. Matteo ducked behind an overturned shipping crate, blade ready, listening to the whispers grow louder, coalescing into words he could barely recognize.

A Syndicate operative appeared at the far end, aiming a silenced pistol. Matteo launched himself forward, spinning, blade connecting with the man’s shoulder. He rolled past another operative, using momentum to kick a third into the shadows. Rain from the broken roof above dripped down, sizzling as it hit hot metal.

The Wraith followed, gliding closer with every move, its whispers now more coherent. Names, faces, and events Matteo had never admitted to anyone—crimes he didn’t even remember committing—echoed in his mind. It was as if the city itself had remembered, and now it demanded recognition.

He fought with precision, each strike calculated to destabilize the Wraith, each movement a dance between life and death. Finally, atop a stack of crates, Matteo thrust his blade downward. The creature screamed—a sound like a thousand voices screaming at once—and melted into a puddle of black mist that evaporated before hitting the floor.

For a heartbeat, silence. Only the rain remained, hammering the roof. Matteo’s chest heaved, but he didn’t slow. Not yet.

Outside, the city waited. And somewhere above, in a cracked skyscraper window, two glowing eyes watched him. Not human. Not Wraith. Something… different.

Matteo didn’t notice the faint pulse against his wrist—the relic in Father Malachi’s hands somewhere across the city was stirring.

The shadows in the alley shifted, as if alive, whispering one final warning:

"We are your sins… and we remember."