Shadow Slave: The Four Horseman of Deviants

'Shit. Now that I've decided to do this, I'm already feeling nervous. But if I don't act now, the mess I'm in will only get worse.'

Andrew moved through the shadows, each step silent, his body light. He was in a life-or-death situation, and the stakes couldn't be higher.

His target was no amateur—this man was a professional killer, the kind you never underestimated. And to make matters worse, the assassin had supernatural abilities. That meant anything could go wrong.

It had taken Andrew a while to track him. Demitra had been careful, taking several detours as though he could feel eyes on him. Paranoia or skill? Maybe both.

'Damn. This guy just likes to wander around,' Andrew thought, frustration bubbling beneath his cool exterior.

Finally, Demitra arrived at a small, isolated hut. His home, no doubt.

Andrew hung back, watching as the assassin carefully scanned his surroundings before stepping inside and shutting the door behind him.

The hut was simple and secure, with no windows—making it impossible to tell where Demitra was inside. That left Andrew with only one option: listening for his movements.

The place was small enough that every step could be heard, but Demitra was annoyingly quiet. Andrew could barely pick up the faintest sound of his footsteps.

For now, patience was key. The target was close—too close to risk anything reckless. He'd wait for midnight, the hour when even the most alert might let their guard down. That would be his moment to strike.

….

It was around midnight when Andrew decided to act. He checked the locked door, testing it cautiously, but as expected, it wouldn't budge. Taking a pin from his pocket, he crouched and began picking the lock. His hands worked swiftly and silently, tension thick in the air.

Click.

The lock gave way, and Andrew slowly pushed the door open. It creaked softly, prompting him to freeze for a moment, listening for any signs of movement. Lowering his stance, he stepped inside with deliberate silence, each movement calculated. The dim glow of a gas lamp illuminated scattered parts of the room, leaving most of it steeped in shadow. The killer was still a silhouette, their features obscured.

From the far side of the room came the sound of soft, steady snoring.

Andrew reached into his jacket and pulled out Sea of Nothingness, the blade gleaming faintly in the flickering light. With a single decisive motion, he lunged forward, aiming for the figure's heart.

'Too easy,' he thought smugly.

But in a blur of movement, the figure rolled to the other side of the bed, dodging the strike with an uncanny agility. Andrew froze, his confidence instantly draining.

The killer sat up, eyes locking on Andrew. A smirk played on their lips.

"I knew someone was following me…"

'Shit.'

Andrew's instincts screamed at him to retreat. Thinking quickly, he snatched the gas lamp and hurled it at the killer, hoping to buy himself a few precious seconds.

The killer snatched it out of the air with ease, his movements unnervingly precise.

"Nice try. But that won't work on me."

From his pocket, the killer pulled out a knife, its blade catching the weak light as he advanced toward Andrew with murderous intent.

Andrew bolted, throwing the door open and sprinting into the night. The killer was right on his heels, silent and relentless. Desperate, Andrew grabbed whatever objects he could find—rocks, scraps of wood, anything within reach—and hurled them over his shoulder.

But the killer dodged or deflected each one with almost insulting ease.

"Fuck!"

Reaching a nearby building, Andrew scaled the wall with practiced speed, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He glanced down to see the killer climbing after him, just as determined and just as fast. Thinking quickly, Andrew dislodged loose tiles and flung them downward, but the killer was a step ahead, reading his every move.

With a flick of his wrist, the killer hurled his knife.

Andrew barely twisted out of the way in time. The blade whizzed past, embedding itself in the wall with a dull thud. Small cracks spidered around it.

A shiver of fear ran through Andrew. His body stiffened, refusing to move despite his frantic attempts to will it forward. His grip slipped.

"Ah, shit."

He fell, landing on his feet with feline grace, but the impact jarred him. He stood in the alley, no rooftops left to escape to, nowhere left to run. With gritted teeth, he drew his dual daggers, ready to face his pursuer head-on.

The killer leapt down, landing lightly before him. His calm, almost amused demeanor sent a chill down Andrew's spine. With a cocky motion, he gestured for Andrew to strike.

Andrew charged, swinging both daggers downward in a ferocious arc.

The killer parried effortlessly, his movements a masterclass in precision. With a swift kick, he sent Andrew flying backward into a pile of trash.

The killer chuckled, stepping closer. "I'll give you credit. You move like someone who's spent years picking pockets, dodging the law. But that's where your talent ends."

Andrew wiped the blood from his lip, glaring. He didn't respond—there was no point. He knew he was outmatched.

Reaching into the trash pile, his fingers closed around a banana peel. With no other options left, he hurled it at the killer's face.

The peel struck its target, landing squarely on the killer's face.

"What in God's name—?!" The killer fumbled, pulling the peel away in irritation.

By the time he'd removed it, Andrew was already gone.

The killer smirked to himself, wiping his face.

"He's fast. But he won't get far."

…..

Andrew sprinted through the dark streets, his heart pounding in his chest. There was only one place he could think of where he might be safe.

When he arrived, he didn't waste a second, pounding on the door with urgency.

"Brawn! Open up! I really fucked up this time!"

The door creaked open to reveal Brawn Knuckles, holding a half-empty beer bottle in one hand. His face was flushed pink, and the stale smell of alcohol wafted out. He was clearly drunk.

"The hell do you want, kid? I told you to track those two idiots!" Brawn slurred, the beer sloshing out of the bottle and onto his shirt. He didn't seem to care, lazily wiping his face with his arm.

Andrew rubbed the back of his neck, his voice dropping in frustration.

"Yeah, about that... I did track them, but I kinda got caught. By Demitra."

At the mention of the name, Brawn froze. For a moment, his expression hardened, but then he sighed and stepped aside, waving Andrew inside.

"The fuck did you do now? You've probably gotten us both screwed."

Andrew walked in, running a hand through his hair.

"I thought I had him. I really thought he let his guard down, so I—"

"So you what?" Brawn cut him off, his voice rising. "You thought you'd play hero? Kid, you already got caught! That bastard's probably on his way here right now! The smartest thing to do is split up before Demitra barges in and slaughters us both!"

Without waiting for a response, Brawn staggered around the small room, grabbing a pouch of coins from the table and shoving it into his pocket.

"I don't give a shit about my other stuff. As long as I've got my coins, I'm out. Good luck, kid."

And with that, Brawn shoved past Andrew and bolted out the door, disappearing into the night.

Andrew stood there, stunned.

"Unbelievable. That musclehead *coward* just ditched me!" he muttered, shaking his head.

He looked around the room, scanning for anything useful.

"There's gotta be something here I can use..." His eyes lit up as an idea struck him.

"Wait. Awakened Stallone. He could help me out with Demitra."

Without wasting another second, Andrew left the house and sprinted toward the West Coast Patrol Station, hoping Stallone would have a solution—or at least buy him some time.