The street was dark—too dark.

  Corsair had walked these roads a hundred times before, always keeping to the shadows, knowing which corners to check, which alleys were safe and which ones weren’t. But tonight, the darkness felt different. It clung to the buildings like something alive, stretching farther than the streetlights should allow, swallowing up the usual sounds of the city. No distant honking, no footsteps of drunks staggering home, no hum of trams rolling past.

  Just silence.

  His gut told him to turn around. Leave. Now.

  But Corsair wasn’t some rookie thug. He wasn’t scared of the dark or of the things that crawled in it. He had made a name for himself in Neo Lyon’s underworld, carved out a reputation with his pistols and his crew. He wasn’t about to back down just because the air felt a little colder than usual.

  Still, he adjusted the collar of his coat and kept his right hand close to his holster.

  The message he had received earlier was vague but clear enough. “Come alone. Business opportunity. Midnight. Rue Maubec.”

  He had half a mind to ignore it. Plenty of cryptic messages like that ended with a knife in someone’s back. But money talked, and the Red Hands had been needing a new gig after their last operation went belly-up. If this was a setup, he’d deal with it like he always did—with bullets.

  He stepped onto Rue Maubec, boots clicking against the pavement. The air here felt thick, unnatural, heavy in his lungs. The neon lights from a distant liquor store flickered, their glow swallowed by the suffocating dark.

  And then, the air shifted.

  It was subtle at first. A faint tingle at the base of his skull, like the moment before a gunshot rings out. A wrongness creeping up his spine, wrapping around his limbs.

  And then—he stopped.

  Corsair tried to move forward.

  Nothing.

  His boots were planted firm, his muscles locked in place as if his own body had turned against him. His breath came shallow, tight, like he was trapped under an invisible weight.

  He tried to twitch a finger.

  But it strained. It hurt.

  Yet, it stayed in place.

  A bead of sweat rolled down his temple as panic clawed up his throat.

  His body wasn’t his anymore.

  Then, a voice—not loud, not dramatic, just a whisper—slithered through the stillness.

  "You walk with confidence, Corsair. A man who knows the streets. Knows control."

  The voice wasn't near him. It wasn't anywhere. It was inside his head.

  And then—he moved.

  Not by his own will.

  His right foot stepped forward.

  His body lurched, arms rising without his command, his fingers curling like a marionette’s limbs, bending at unnatural angles before straightening again. The movement wasn’t forced—it was worse. It was fluid. Smooth. Effortless. As if he had never been in control of his body at all.

  "You are a fighter," the voice continued, calm, unhurried. "A man of action. And yet, Corsair, what does a man of action do when the action is not his own?"

  Corsair twisted on his heel, a perfect soldier’s turn. His arms spread slightly, then lowered. His fingers curled toward his holster, not to draw—but to unbuckle it.

  No, no, NO.

  His heart pounded against his ribs, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He could feel the weight of his own weapons, the familiar press of steel against his body. But he wasn’t holding them. He wasn’t moving.

  Someone else was.

  "Calm yourself," the voice whispered, almost soothing. "I have no use for puppets who break so easily."

  Corsair’s head tilted up, his gaze locking onto the far end of the alley. And there, stepping out of the thick, unnatural dark, was Loom.

  No footsteps. No sound. Just motion, the shifting of something that wasn't entirely human.

  Loom was tall. Very much so. Tall and thin. His black suit contrasted only by a red necktie and the red palms of his gloves.

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  However, what gave pause to Corsair was Loom’s face. His eyes were a stark red, the same used on his clothes, a peculiar colour, but much less frightening than the complete lack of a mouth on him. Just a smooth expanse of skin where his mouth and lips should have been. It was… unsettling. Unnatural. Like looking at a mannequin, but a mannequin that moved, that breathed, that looked at you with those unnervingly red eyes.

  “You received my message, I presume,” Loom’s voice echoed in his mind, still a whisper, yet somehow resonating with an undeniable power. It was as if the very air was vibrating with his words.

  “Who… are you?” the question struggled out of Corsair’s mouth, his instincts screaming at him to just run or fight, yet his body was still locked in place, only his mouth and eyes able to move.

  “I am Loom,” the voice replied, “And I believe we have… mutual interests.”

  Corsair wanted to scoff, wanted to fight back, but he was still trapped, his arms blocked in the middle of his walking swings.

  Loom took one slow step forward.

  Corsair’s body mirrored it.

  Another step.

  Corsair followed.

  His limbs weren’t his own.

  His feet dragged against the pavement like a puppet being pulled by invisible strings.

  A cold shudder ran through him. His mind screamed NO, NO, NO. But his body didn’t care. It obeyed. It moved.

  Loom tilted his head slightly, those crimson eyes glowing faintly.

  "Do you understand now?" the whisper coiled inside Corsair’s skull. "You move because I allow it. You stop because I command it. I do not ask. I do not negotiate. I do not threaten. I simply… control."

  Corsair gritted his teeth, fighting for anything—any movement, any twitch of his fingers, but his body remained frozen.

  "You understand," Loom repeated, the voice a silken thread weaving through Corsair's mind, "the power I wield. A power far greater than any pistol, any gang, any petty ambition you might cling to."

  Corsair's body, against his will, took another step, closing the distance between him and Loom. The air around Loom shimmered slightly, as if the darkness itself was bending to his will. Corsair felt a primal fear, something beyond the usual terror of a street fight gone wrong.

  "You are a resourceful man, Corsair," Loom continued, his voice a low hum in Corsair's thoughts. "You have built your reputation, carved out a place for yourself in this city. But your reach is limited. Your power… insignificant."

  Corsair's jaw clenched. He wanted to spit in Loom's face, tell him to go to hell, but his body remained unresponsive, a prisoner in its own skin. The humiliation was almost unbearable.

  "I offer you a chance, Corsair," Loom whispered, his voice now laced with a hint of something that sounded almost like… amusement? "A chance to transcend your limitations. To wield true power. To become… more."

  Corsair's mind raced. What was this "opportunity" Loom spoke of? Some kind of twisted power play? A trap? He didn't trust Loom, not for a second. The man exuded an aura of coldness, of calculated malice, that made Corsair's skin crawl. But the fear… the absolute terror of being so utterly helpless, so completely controlled… it was a powerful motivator.

  "Tell me," Loom purred, "do you desire power, Corsair? Do you crave the kind of influence that bends others to your will, that reshapes the very fabric of this city?"

  Corsair hesitated. He knew what Loom wanted to hear. He could feel the words forming in his throat, ready to spill out, but a sliver of defiance remained. He wouldn't give Loom the satisfaction of a willing surrender.

  "Answer me, Corsair," Loom pressed, his voice hardening slightly. "Do you desire power?"

  Corsair's body, as if sensing his hesitation, twitched. His right hand, still trapped halfway to his holster, flexed slightly. It was a subtle movement, barely perceptible, but it was enough to send a jolt of fear through Corsair. Was Loom… punishing him?

  "Yes," Corsair's voice croaked out, the word forced from his lips. "I… I want power."

  Loom's head tilted slightly, as if he was studying Corsair, his crimson eyes burning into him. "Good," he whispered. "Honesty is… appreciated."

  Corsair's body relaxed slightly, the tension in his muscles easing. He could feel the control loosening, the invisible strings that had held him captive beginning to fray.

  "I have a proposition for you, Corsair," Loom continued, his voice returning to its smooth, persuasive tone. "A business venture. A partnership. One that will bring you more wealth, more influence, than you could ever imagine."

  Corsair listened, his mind reeling. He knew this was a dangerous game, that dealing with Loom was like making a pact with the devil himself. But the lure of power, the promise of escaping his current life, was too tempting to resist. And, if he was being honest with himself, there was also the underlying fear. Fear of what Loom could do to him if he refused.

  "Tell me," Corsair said, his voice regaining a sliver of its usual bravado. "What do you want me to do?"

  Loom’s face distorted in a grimace despite the absence of his mouth, as if he were smiling without lips. "I have need of someone… discreet. Someone who understands the streets, who knows how to handle… delicate matters. Someone who isn't afraid to get their hands dirty."

  Corsair nodded, playing along. "I'm your man."

  "I know," Loom replied. "That's why I chose you."

  Loom then proceeded to explain the job. It was simple enough, on the surface. Protect a shipment. Ensure it arrives at its destination. No questions asked. The details, Loom assured him, were "need-to-know."

  The money, however, was substantial. More than Corsair had ever made in a single deal. Enough to set him up for life. Enough to buy him the kind of power he craved.

  "Consider it a… test," Loom said, his voice a low murmur. "If you succeed, there will be more opportunities. Greater opportunities. And if you fail…"

  Loom didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to. The threat hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.

  Corsair nodded, his gaze fixed on Loom's unsettlingly red eyes. "I understand."

  "Good. Then we have an understanding."

  With that, Loom turned and melted back into the darkness, disappearing as silently as he had appeared.

  Corsair stood there for a moment, his body finally his own again. He took a deep breath, the air filling his lungs, the feeling of control returning to his limbs. He felt shaken, violated, but also… exhilarated. He had made a deal with the devil, and he knew it. But he also knew that it was a deal he couldn't refuse. The money was too good, the fear of Loom too great.

  He looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers. He was back in control, but the memory of those moments, when his body had moved without his will, when he had been nothing more than a puppet, would forever haunt him. He would never forget the chilling power of Loom. And he would do whatever it took to avoid feeling that helpless again.