Chapter 1 The Crimson Eyes
Prologue:
The night was already dark. The clouds concealed the full moon with their thickness. On the other side, the rumbling of thunder grew louder, and lightning raged angrily. A shadow of a man in the distance was desperately trying to escape. The man was bloodied and exhausted. He knelt, pleading that his life be spared. Standing before him was a creature that, at first glance, would not seem capable of harming a person.
“Please spare my life,” said the man.
No words were heard from this creature. It was dressed in ninja attire known as shinobi shozoku. Its hair was short and blonde. A mask covered its mouth. The only thing visible was its crimson-colored eyes. This creature was too focused on its assigned mission. It recognized no other person. It trusted no one but itself.
“Help! Help! Somebody!” the man shouted.
No help came. He was almost out of blood. Crawling, the man’s breathing gradually weakened. The assassin stood watching its target. Slowly, it brought its mouth close to the man’s ear and whispered,
“If only you weren’t Him, perhaps the situation would have been different.”
What did this mean? Only a few seconds remained of his breathing. The assassin counted down.
“3..2..1..” It counted. “Goodbye, Doc,” it said as it turned its back on the corpse of its target. There was no remorse in its voice. Its voice was full of anger that it was forcibly suppressing. Moments later, heavy rain poured down. Even though soaked by the rain, it remained standing, watching the bloodied body of the man in the distance. The white lab gown the man wore turned red. Beside him, his broken glasses were visible, along with scattered papers and folders. Everything was soaked and bathed in blood.
A siren could be heard gradually approaching. An ambulance and a police car arrived. EMS (Emergency Medical Services) personnel and paramedics quickly got out to assess the situation of the man lying on the ground. The man was immediately loaded onto a stretcher and into the ambulance. The ambulance left right away.
The responding police officer remained at the crime scene. He investigated the surroundings of the crime scene one by one. He took his radio and reported the events. A few minutes later, investigators arrived. They set up a police line to secure the crime scene from contamination. The investigators would have difficulty properly investigating the crime scene due to the heavy rain. It was necessary to secure the evidence left at the crime scene. Meanwhile, in the distance, the assassin was still watching. It stood in the shadow of darkness. Watching and waiting for whatever steps the police would take.
A man in his 30s arrived. Wearing a black raincoat. As he approached, he immediately presented his badge. He was an investigator from the Metropolitan. He was assigned to the case because of his familiarity with the style used in the killing.
“Detective Jethro Kai of the Metropolitan Police,” he introduced himself.
‘The style used by the killer is similar to that of El Penumbra,’ he thought.
End of Prologue
The city never truly slept. Even in the dead of night, its veins pulsed with the hum of engines, the flicker of neon lights, and the restless whispers of those who thrived in the dark. Rain poured relentlessly, washing the streets in silver reflections. Somewhere in the heart of the metropolis, a crime scene glowed under the harsh glare of police floodlights. The air was thick with the scent of iron and asphalt.
Detective Jethro Kai stood beneath his black umbrella, his coat heavy with rain. The rhythmic patter of droplets against the fabric was the only sound that seemed alive amid the stillness of death. Before him lay the body of Dr. Alaric Voss, a man once celebrated as a pioneer in genetic research. Now, he was just another name on a growing list of victims—each one connected by a single, haunting symbol.
A crescent moon, drawn in blood, marked the wall beside the corpse.
Jethro crouched beside the body, his gloved hand hovering just above the crimson stain. “Same mark,” he murmured, his voice low but steady. “Same precision. No signs of struggle.”
Officer Ramirez, a young recruit barely out of training, shifted uneasily behind him. “Sir, the witnesses said they saw someone—uh, a woman. But they weren’t sure. They said her eyes were… red.”
Jethro’s gaze flicked upward, meeting the officer’s uncertain stare. “Red eyes?” he repeated, his tone unreadable. “People see what they want to see when they’re afraid.”
Ramirez nodded quickly, though his expression betrayed doubt. “Still, sir, it’s strange. The security cameras were all disabled ten minutes before the murder. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing.”
Jethro rose to his full height, scanning the perimeter. The rain blurred the edges of the world, turning everything into a watercolor of shadows and light. “Pull the footage from the surrounding blocks,” he ordered. “Traffic cams, ATMs, anything. I want every angle within a five-mile radius.”
“Yes, sir.”
As Ramirez hurried off, Jethro turned back to the body. Dr. Voss’s lifeless eyes stared upward, reflecting the faint glow of the moon through the clouds. There was no sign of forced entry, no defensive wounds, no chaos, only silence and precision. Whoever had done this was a professional. And not just any professional.
“El Penumbra,” Jethro whispered under his breath.
The name had become a ghost story among law enforcement circles, a phantom assassin who appeared and vanished without a trace. There were no fingerprints, no DNA, no witnesses who lived long enough to describe her. Only the mark of the crescent moon, always drawn in blood. For years, the Metropolitan Police had chased her shadow, but she remained untouchable. Some said she was a myth. Others swore she was death itself.
Jethro didn’t believe in myths. He believed in patterns, in logic, in the cold precision of evidence. But something about this case unsettled him. The way the body was positioned, the surgical accuracy of the wound—it wasn’t just murder. It was a message.
He pulled out his notebook, flipping through pages filled with sketches, notes, and photographs. Each victim had ties to a single organization: the Evergrace Foundation. A name that carried weight in the city’s elite circles. A name that, for reasons he couldn’t explain, stirred something deep within him—something like déjà vu.
“Detective Kai,” a voice called from behind him. It was Chief Inspector Marlowe, his superior and one of the few people Jethro trusted. The older man’s face was lined with fatigue, his gray hair plastered to his forehead by the rain. “You’ve been standing here for hours. Go home. Get some rest.”
Jethro didn’t look up. “Rest won’t bring him back.”
Marlowe sighed. “You’ve been chasing this ghost for months. Maybe it’s time to accept that some cases don’t have answers.”
“There’s always an answer,” Jethro said quietly. “We just haven’t found it yet.”
Marlowe studied him for a moment, then placed a hand on his shoulder. “You remind me of myself when I was your age. Stubborn. Obsessed. Don’t let this case consume you.”
Jethro finally turned to face him. “It already has.”
The chief’s expression softened. “Then at least don’t let it destroy you.”
When Marlowe walked away, Jethro remained, staring at the crescent mark. The rain had begun to wash it away, turning the blood into thin rivulets that ran down the wall like tears. He took a deep breath, the cold air burning his lungs. Somewhere out there, the killer was watching. He could feel it—a presence lingering just beyond sight.
And he was right.
From the rooftop across the street, a figure stood cloaked in darkness. The rain slid down her black attire, glistening like liquid glass. Her mask covered the lower half of her face, but her eyes—those unmistakable crimson eyes—shone through the night. She watched the detective with quiet intensity, her heartbeat steady, her breathing controlled.
Alex Evergrace had been trained to feel nothing. To kill without hesitation. To erase her existence from the world. Yet, as she watched Jethro Kai move through the scene, something unfamiliar stirred within her chest. Recognition. Curiosity. Perhaps even guilt.
She whispered to herself, her voice barely audible over the rain. “You shouldn’t have come, Detective.”
Her earpiece crackled to life. “Report,” came a voice—cold, mechanical, devoid of emotion.
“Target eliminated,” Alex replied. “No witnesses. No trace.”
“Good. Proceed to extraction.”
She hesitated. “There was someone else. A detective. He’s investigating.”
“Then make sure he doesn’t find you.”
The line went dead.
Alex exhaled slowly, lowering her hood. The city stretched before her like a labyrinth of secrets. She had been part of this world for too long—an instrument of vengeance forged by hatred. But lately, the lines between right and wrong had begun to blur. Each mission left her emptier than the last. Each kill felt less like justice and more like punishment.
She turned away from the edge, disappearing into the shadows.
By morning, the rain had stopped, leaving the city washed clean but heavy with unease. Jethro sat in his office, the blinds half-drawn, the faint light of dawn filtering through. His desk was cluttered with files, photographs, and a steaming cup of black coffee that had long gone cold. He stared at the evidence board pinned to the wall—strings connecting faces, places, and symbols in a web of crimson thread.
At the center of it all was the crescent moon.
He traced the symbol with his eyes, his mind racing. Every victim had been connected to the Evergrace Foundation in some capacity: scientists, executives, and researchers. But why target them? What did they have in common beyond their employer?
A knock on the door broke his concentration. “Come in,” he said.
Officer Ramirez entered, holding a folder. “Sir, we pulled the traffic cam footage as you asked. There’s something you should see.”
Jethro gestured for him to continue. Ramirez placed a tablet on the desk and played the video. The grainy footage showed a figure moving across the rooftops near the crime scene—swift, agile, almost inhuman. The camera caught a brief glimpse of her face as lightning flashed.
Crimson eyes.
Jethro leaned forward, his pulse quickening. “Freeze it.”
Ramirez paused the video. The image was blurred, but the outline was unmistakable, a woman in black, her gaze piercing through the lens as if she knew she was being watched.
“Enhance the image,” Jethro ordered.
Ramirez hesitated. “Sir, the resolution,”
“Do it.”
The officer complied, adjusting the filters until the image sharpened slightly. The woman’s features remained obscured, but the eyes were clear. Red, luminous, almost unnatural.
Jethro sat back, his mind spinning. “It’s her.”
“El Penumbra?” Ramirez asked.
He nodded slowly. “And she’s not just a myth.”
Ramirez swallowed hard. “What do we do now?”
Jethro’s eyes never left the screen. “We find her.”
Across the city, Alex sat in a dimly lit apartment, her mask lying on the table beside her. The room was sparse, no decorations, no personal items, just the essentials. She stared at her reflection in the cracked mirror, tracing the faint scar along her jawline. The woman staring back at her looked like a stranger.
She opened a small metal case on the table. Inside were photographs—targets she had eliminated over the years. Each one marked with a date and a single word: Justice. But when she reached the last photo, her hand trembled. It was Dr. Voss. The man she had killed the night before.
Her mentor. Her father figure.
She closed the case abruptly, her breath catching in her throat. “You told me to find the truth,” she whispered. “But all I’ve found is blood.”
Her phone buzzed. A message appeared on the screen: New assignment. Target: Detective Jethro Kai.
Her heart stopped.
For the first time in years, she hesitated to open the file. When she finally did, the image staring back at her made her chest tighten. The same man who had stood in the rain, his eyes filled with quiet determination. The same man who had looked at the crime scene not with fear, but with understanding.
She closed the file and leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “Why him?”
No answer came. Only silence.
That night, Jethro returned to the crime scene. The rain had dried, but the air still carried the scent of death. He walked the perimeter, flashlight in hand, searching for anything the forensics team might have missed. His instincts told him there was more here, something hidden in plain sight.
He stopped near the wall where the crescent mark had been drawn. The blood was gone, but faint traces remained, etched into the concrete. He ran his fingers over it, feeling the rough texture beneath his gloves.
A whisper echoed behind him. “You shouldn’t be here.”
Jethro spun around, gun drawn. The beam of his flashlight cut through the darkness, illuminating nothing but empty air. “Who’s there?”
No response.
He took a cautious step forward, scanning the shadows. “Show yourself.”
A figure emerged from the darkness, silent as the night itself. She moved with the grace of a predator, her black attire blending seamlessly with the gloom. The mask covered her face, but her eyes, those crimson eyes, glowed faintly in the light.
Jethro’s grip tightened on his weapon. “El Penumbra.”
She tilted her head slightly. “You shouldn’t say my name.”
“Then give me another one.”
Silence.
He took a step closer. “Why did you kill him?”
Her voice was calm, almost sorrowful. “Because he asked me to.”
Jethro frowned. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’ll get.”
Before he could react, she moved, faster than his eyes could follow. In an instant, the gun was knocked from his hand, and he found himself pinned against the wall, her blade pressed lightly against his throat. Her eyes met his, and for a moment, time seemed to stop.
“You’re not like the others,” she said softly. “You don’t run.”
“I don’t chase ghosts,” he replied.
Her lips curved beneath the mask, almost a smile. “Then maybe you’ll survive.”
And just like that, she was gone, vanishing into the night as if she had never been there.
Jethro stood frozen, his heart pounding. He touched his neck where the blade had grazed him, a thin line of blood marking the encounter. He looked up at the rooftops, but she was nowhere to be seen.
“El Penumbra,” he whispered again, the name tasting like smoke on his tongue. “Who are you?”
Far above, hidden among the shadows, Alex watched him leave. Her hand trembled as she sheathed her blade. For the first time in her life, she had spared a target.
And she didn’t know why.
The rain began to fall again, soft and steady, washing away the traces of blood and footprints. The city slept, unaware that two souls, one bound by duty, the other by vengeance, had crossed paths under the same storm.
Neither knew it yet, but their fates had already begun to intertwine.
