The Confessors Blade

Chapter 3 — The Syndicate’s Edge

The neon city groaned beneath the rain. New Helix never slept, and tonight, it screamed. Matteo Cross moved like a ghost, slipping through back alleys, scaling fire escapes, and vanishing down maintenance shafts that led him closer to the Syndicate’s shadowed heart.

He didn’t yet know why they were after him—he only knew that their surveillance had tightened. Street cameras flickered and blinked in unusual patterns, drone silhouettes darted past his vision, and faint signals pinged through his communicator. Someone knew he had faced a Wraith. And that someone wanted it—and him.

He reached the edge of the Syndicate’s territory, a cluster of high-rise complexes wrapped in neon and steel. From above, the lights made the buildings look like jagged teeth biting the clouds. Matteo’s target tonight: one of the Syndicate’s lieutenants rumored to control illegal tech experiments in the city—experiments tied to Wraith manifestations.

Rain dripped from the eaves above as Matteo crouched on a rooftop. He scanned the streets below. Two guards patrolled the perimeter. Motion sensors blinked faintly red along the edges of the building.

Time to move.

He dropped silently into a side alley and melted into the darkness. Every step was measured, every movement deliberate. From the corner of his eye, he saw shadows that shouldn’t exist—residual echoes of the Wraith he’d faced last night, whispering names and events he had never spoken aloud. His hand tightened around the hilt of his blade, its cross-shaped engraving faintly catching the neon glow.

The alley ended in a grate leading into the building’s lower levels. Matteo picked the lock with nimble fingers, sliding into the subterranean labyrinth. Pipes ran overhead, leaking water in steady drips. The air smelled of rust and decay—a perfect hunting ground.

He moved quietly, ears alert. And then he saw them: two figures hovering just ahead, translucent, malformed—the Wraith remnants. They sensed him, turning as one, eyes empty but accusing.

The fight began. Matteo spun, slicing through the nearest Wraith, the mist scattering in black droplets. The other lunged from the side, tendrils whipping at him. He ducked and rolled, blade slicing through the mist. Sparks flew when it struck the metallic pipes, and for a heartbeat, the Wraith faltered, coalescing into a humanoid shape before dissipating again.

Then came the gunfire. Syndicate assassins had traced him underground. Matteo ducked behind a broken crate, firing three rounds from his silenced pistol. One operative went down, but more appeared from every shadowed corner.

The fight was relentless—Matteo spinning, rolling, and jumping across catwalks and machinery, blade flashing and bullets finding targets with unerring precision. Wraiths swirled around him, their whispers layering over the shots and screams, growing louder, pressing in on his mind.

A small panel on the wall caught his attention—an emergency control panel for the building’s security systems. He yanked the wires free, triggering a short-circuit. Lights flickered violently, smoke rose from vents, and the Syndicate assassins stumbled in the confusion.

Seizing the moment, Matteo dashed forward, vaulting over a railing and sliding down a wet chute that dumped him into the lower corridor of the experimental lab. Inside, strange machines hummed, some pulsing with energy that made the air thick and metallic. Tubes ran along the walls, filled with liquid that moved like liquid shadows—echoes of sins collected, perhaps, to be turned into more Wraiths.

A figure appeared—a Syndicate lieutenant, enhanced with cybernetic arms and claws that gleamed under the fluorescent light. “You’re bold to come here,” the man said, voice distorted by tech implants. “But you’ll pay for the Wraith you’ve already touched.”

Matteo didn’t respond. Action was faster than words. The lab became a storm of steel, sparks, and rain-soaked debris as they clashed. Matteo’s blade met cybernetic claws, metal screeching as Wraith tendrils slashed at both of them, disrupting machinery and causing arcs of electricity to dance along the floor.

It was brutal, close-quarters combat, each movement calculated but desperate. Matteo ducked a claw, rolled past a Wraith tendril, and slashed at the lieutenant’s torso. Sparks ignited as metal met metal. With a final, fluid motion, Matteo impaled the lieutenant’s arm into a control panel, electrocuting him and knocking out several Wraiths nearby.

The lab fell silent, save for the faint hum of machines and the rain pounding on the broken vents above. Matteo’s chest heaved, muscles aching, eyes scanning for the next threat. There would be more. There always were.

He exited through the vent system, emerging on a deserted street. The neon reflected in the puddles, shimmering across his soaked coat. And then he heard it—a soft, deliberate sound of footsteps above. Two glowing eyes appeared in the cracked window of the building across the street. Not Wraith. Not human. Something different. Something watching.

Matteo paused, hand on the hilt of his blade, sensing the weight of sins pressing closer, the city’s pulse quickening. Somewhere, Father Malachi’s relic pulsed faintly, calling, warning, summoning. Matteo knew one thing: the Syndicate had marked him. The Wraiths were learning. And this was only the beginning.

A shadow detached itself from the building across the street, leaping down silently behind Matteo. He spun—blade raised—but the shadow was gone. Only a whisper lingered in the rain:

"You cannot run from what you carry…"