+𝕊𝕙𝕒𝕕𝕠𝕨 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕎𝕚𝕕𝕠𝕨+ | 𝕹𝖆𝖙 𝕽𝖔𝖒𝖆𝖓𝖔𝖋𝖋 ❖ Male Reader

Chapter 1; The Shadow

THE SHADOW AND THE WIDOW

THE SHUDDERING BREEZE OF THE OUTSKIRT AIR had increased in shaky volume. Even the stacks of over layering coats were not enough to surpass the shivering temperature of the dirt-side living.

The skies were dim and dark— stars twinkling in scattered alignment as when the night hours would pass, another willing to appear. The waning crescent of the moonlight hovering above the pitch-grey fog that fluttered on its habituated atmosphere.

The cements roads taking form of a moist appearance from prior rains as the lamp posts had lit in unison. The littered streets now in clear sight as the brightness had overtaken the dark settings.

Newspapers scattered the sidewalks, damped and wet. The words were unreadable but with a closer look, they served purpose.

'THE GRIM BRAND OF JUSTICE ALLEGEDLY SIGHTED : HOAX?'

'DEVIL MYTHOLOGIES REAL?'

'THE JUDGE, JURY, AND EXECUTIONER NEW ATTACK!'

'THE SHADOW THAT LURKS FROM ABOVE: TO BE FEARED OR TO BE FOOLED?'

Somewhere not too far away, the large structure of the rail dependent warehouse had emitted in a bright yellow-ish light, overcoming the dim.

Boxes heard scraping the grounds as they slowly slid up the ramps, bridging over to several trucks that loaded with more. Mixed grunts, groans, and sounds of displeasure had echoed even from afar.

Meanwhile, a figure slowly stood above all— admiring his work as he dazed on the glass window.

A small huff of smoke escaping his lips as the nicotine-filled stick squeezed between his index and middle finger, occupying his office quarters— from the bookshelves that arranged from literary order to the paperwork segregating from each ancestor.

The high quality of oak hardwoods that seemed to be chosen from experienced taste. The accents of the room from the proper manifested lighting to even the most organized of furniture.

"You know... this place lacks security." He mused, looking over his shoulder. "You wouldn't want the 'devil' raiding our work, do you?"

"The 'reaper', you mean? That son of a bitch is the least of my worries!" The old man chuckles, slapping the newspaper on-top of the workbench. "They say you have a higher chance of winning the lottery than even coming close to him!"

"But, there's still a chance— isn't there?"

"Come on, you really believe this 'daily bugle' bullshit?" The old man weakly pushes himself off the red cushioned chair, steadily limping over before lightly patting the man's shoulder. "They can't even spell our cartel right. What makes you think they can point out the dangers?"

As the words roll out of his mouth, a small bulb that hovered above had slowly flickered— immediately catching their eye.

Another soon following in pursuit, constantly flashing in an inconsistent pace of on-off switches.

But from two— came three— came four— until, half had slowly taken into the overlapping pace of accessibility.