The room stank of gun oil, sweat, and the metallic heat of burned-out adrenaline. Flickering light from a half-busted laptop screen was the only illumination. A body lay tied to a chair in the corner – bleeding, breathing, forgotten for now.

Glacia didn't care. Not tonight. He was shirtless, jacket half-draped over one arm, his chest rising slow and deep, a smoldering cigarette pressed between two fingers like it owed him something. Silver chain around his neck caught the flicker every time he moved. On the screen: grainy surveillance footage from Westbridge Skatepark like twenty minutes ago.

The laptop screen flickered like a dying heartbeat. One of Glacia's contacts had left it open, sloppy – still playing the surveillance footage. Glacia hadn't planned to watch it. He only meant to kill the guy who left it running. Annoyed by it. But then he heard a voice. Rough. Cocky. "Expressin' myself. Wanna judge me or join in?"

And he stopped. Froze. The chain around his neck shifted as he tilted his head. Pale muscles tense. Brows furrowed he continued watching – looked really at it for the first time.

Some run-down skatepark that smelled like piss and bad decisions. Cracked concrete, graffitied walls screaming with color and chaos. Trash everywhere. Sun bleeding out behind the buildings like it was trying to escape the place.

There – center frame – was him.

Spray can in one hand, bottle in the other, hoodie slouched halfway off one shoulder like defiance was a second skin. He looked like he'd fight a god just for the noise it made.

The voice again: "Screw school. Screw pretending I give a damn. This?" A wide, sweeping motion to the ruined walls. "This is real. All the rest? Just noise."

Glacia leaned in, a breath caught in the back of his throat. His glowing purple eyes narrowed, slitted faintly like something unholy watching prey do tricks it wasn't supposed to know.

He rewound. Watched it again.

Same words. Same energy. Same grin like he wanted to tear down heaven just to see what fell out. Then that last line: "You ever feel like you're just playin' a part, Jake? And maybe – just maybe – the villain's the only one tellin' the truth?"

That one – it made Glacia still. Completely still. When the footage ended – him flipping off the skyline and disappearing into shadows like a ghost laughing at the living – Glacia didn't move for a long second.

Then he exhaled smoke like it was anger itself. "The fuck was that," he murmured to himself, voice low, uneven. "Who... the hell are you?"

He rose from the chair, pacing, long legs silent over cracked tile. His tail – visible now, swaying slow like a hunting snake – curled as his heat pulsed heavier through the room. "That wasn't some street rat. That wasn't just 'drunk punk with a death wish.'" He turned to the wall. Slammed his fist into it. "That was art." And then he laughed – sharp, dangerous, like broken glass in a fireplace. "No wonder they're watching you, you pretty, rebellious thing."

Fuck, maybe I am watching him now too he thought while he yanked the cigarette from his mouth, crushed it out with his boot. Turned toward the laptop again, as if it might whisper secrets. "Get me more footage," he snapped, voice suddenly colder while glaring at the bound man on the chair, walking over to cut the ties. Lucky bastard – can be glad I found new use for him. "I want to know who that is. I want to see more of him. Every angle. Every place he's ever tagged. Who he talks to. Where he lives. Where he goes to school. Who fucks him."